I have a whole 'nother stomach for soup

Today I was craving McDonald's corn soup.

...so I decided to make my own. Tada!

See the abundant eggs??? See the corn's golden hue???

All right, I guess all I had to do was use a powdered soup mix, some chicken stock, milk and canned corn. So maybe not so impressive a feat. Except, am I a little smug about having cracked the eggs without getting any egg shells in the mix? Did I not satisfy my corn soup craving?

The rabbit at the bottom of the bowl says yes. Look I saved a little droplet for its tummy too!

Beautiful writing

"There seemed to be some heavenly support beneath his shoulder blades that lifted his feet from the ground in ecstatic suspension, as if he secretly enjoyed the ability to fly but was walking as a compromise to convention."

-Zelda Fitzgerald

Kafka

"I think we ought to read only the kind of books that wound and stab us. If the book we are reading doesn’t wake us up with a blow on the head, what are we reading it for? We need the books that affect us like a disaster, that grieve us deeply, like the death of someone we loved more than ourselves, like being banished into forests far from everyone, like a suicide.

A book must be the axe for the frozen sea inside us."

That hair

Thomas Hardy

"...Oak was happy in that he was not over happy. He had no wish to converse with her: that his bright lady and himself formed one group, exclusively their own, and containing no others in the world, was enough. So the chatter was all on her side.

There is a loquacity that tells nothing, which was Bathsheba's; and there is a silence which says much: that was Gabriel's."

-Far From the Madding Crowd

When you enter my apartment

you see this.

Get on my feet

let's dance.

Minimalist fairy tale posters

Nabokov's lecture on Kafka’s “Metamorphosis”

"I don’t know if you read a couple of years ago in the papers about that teenage girl and boy who murdered the girl’s mother. It starts with a very Kafkaesque scene: the girl’s mother has come home and found her daughter and the boy in the bedroom, and the boy has hit the mother with a hammer—several times—and dragged her away. But the woman is still thrashing and groaning in the kitchen, and the boy says to his sweetheart, “Gimme the hammer. I think I’ll have to knock her again.” But the girl gives her mate a knife instead and he stabs the girl’s mother many, many times, to death—under the impression, probably, that this all is a comic strip: you hit a person, the person sees lots of stars and exclamation marks but revives by and by, in the next installment. Physical life however has no next installment, and soon boy and girl have to do something with dead mother. “Oh, plaster of paris, it will dissolve her completely!” Of course, it will—marvelous idea—place body in bathtub, cover with plaster, and that’s all. Meanwhile, with mother under the plaster (which does not work—wrong plaster, perhaps) boy and girl throw several beer parties. What fun! Lovely canned music, and lovely canned beer. “But you can’t go, fellas, to the bathroom. The bathroom is a mess.”

"For Nabokov, the incident was illustrative of a certain ugly strain of human nature that Kafka was driving at. It was a way for him to show the undergraduates that the horror of the short story was realer and more familiar to them—and at the same time more strangely horrible—than it first appeared. “I’m trying to show you,” Nabokov told them, “that in so-called real life we find sometimes a great resemblance to the situation in Kafka’s fantastic story.” He was drawing their attention toward “the curious mentality of the morons in Kafka who enjoy their evening paper despite the fantastic horror in the middle of their apartment.”'


Read more http://www.newyorker.com/online/blogs/books/2011/07/vladimir-nabokov-tyler-hadley-murder-port-st-lucie.html#ixzz1TH6x5OHj

Happy One and a Half!

I've been with this boy for exactly one year 'n six months and many things have changed. I never thought I'd be so content having someone physically close by (under the same roof, in the same place, a few feet away at his desk while I'm at the coffee table or bed) every day. In the beginning I wondered how couples could do it -- see each other every day. Wouldn't they run out of things to talk about? Wouldn't they get sick of each other? Wouldn't they start picking up on each other's annoying tendencies -- the same tendencies they initially thought were charming? Sniffling too much, burping too loud, always misplacing things, shedding hair all over the rugs, etc. And most importantly, wouldn't they feel less attraction toward one another? You know what some people say: sometimes you see the same face for so long that you forget what had drawn you to it in the first place. You can't even tell if they're pretty or not anymore, if they're more handsome now or before.

He has been the only person in my life so far who has convinced me otherwise. Or more accurately, our relationship has convinced me otherwise; my feelings for him and observations of myself, of him, of us together. The way we are. He makes me content, and yet leaves me wanting more of him at the same time. There is always something to look forward to even when there's not a specific event; it's simply just going to his home at the day's end and knowing that really, one of the best parts is just about to begin: seeing him. It starts with unlocking the door and stepping inside 2H, taking off my shoes, washing my hands and heading to wherever he is.

I'm so thankful that he's welcomed me into his space. To be myself with him.

It has made me realize that I don't have to worry -- there's nothing to be afraid of: Two people can be together daily, not every hour of course, but at least a few each day, and not get sick of each other, not feel restricted. That they can enjoy each other peacefully, even while doing separate things and remaining close by.

Here he is caught in a failed "jumping picture" attempt. Always makes me laugh.

I feel like I'm inside a Hot Pocket

"The irony

is that I love women. I fall apart at the sight of long legs, striding, briskly, as a breeze carries up from the river, on a weekday, in the play of morning light.

The second irony is that it's not the bodies of women that I ultimately crave but their minds. The mind of a woman. The delicate chambering and massive unidirectional flow, like a physics experiment. What fun it is to talk to an intelligent woman wearing stockings as she crosses her legs. That little staticky sound of rustling nylon can make me happy on several levels.

The third and related irony is that it's the most complex and neurotic and difficult women that I am invariably drawn to. I like simple men and complicated women."

-Don DeLillo, White Noise

Absent

Today I am too exhausted to eat bread.

Look who's here!

At Peter Luger's! Yummiest spinach everrrrr.

I think of you a lot

--------------------------------
"Dear xiao mei,

I think of you a lot. i know i like you to be happy. I hope you eat as much as you can with each meal (I am afraid soup might let you get hungry soon). I hope you exersise regularly and your face is as red as apple.

mom"

-------------------------------

The red shirt she's wearing with little daisies on it used to be mine when I was a kid. And before that it had been my sister's. Often I'll see my mom wearing one of our old shirts from our childhood, shirts she had dressed us up in as she packed us in the car off to school with our Power Ranger lunch boxes with mini boxes of Sun Maid raisins in them, the same shirts she wears now as she plants roses in the garden. And I can't explain why that makes my heart smile so.

Waiting for

this stud to come back! Quick-uh-ly!!

I don't miss it

Searching and writing up comp titles
beats
Transcribing hour-long interviews WITHOUT EARPHONES
by a bajillion times.

Ode to my toe ring

At times I glimpse at you and think, "now's about time to take it off." Then i'm like, well what else have I got on me that I've kept since 7th grade? You're a blamelessly cheap and tacky piece of jewelry and I don't see what harm it'll be to go on another few years or so with you wrapped (sometimes wiggle-ly) around my left second toe either under thick winter socks or summer flats, or in a puddle of splishy-splashy water & soapy foam when I shower, or pressed atop ticklish sun-bleached grass during fine, fine days in the park.

I guess you could call me sentimental & overattached and that'd be true indeed.

Roscoe

"Whenever I was a child
I wondered what if my name had changed
into something more productive like Roscoe
Been born in 1891 waiting with my aunt Rosaline"

Hmm...the times when I'd be sitting in the newsroom with my earphones on with song on repeat.
Since I suck and cannot find out how to link stuff on this blog (I did it in the beginning but have somehow forgotten)... here's the youtube video for this awesome song. Yeah it requires a little [highlight] [copy] [paste] action -- NOT THAT HARD:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JDL9bXlwbM4

Rushing in, caught, rushing out

to defend his manhood: kellen didn't have a pink bag. it was mine.

Mom & Dad!

One Art

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

--Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

(Elizabeth Bishop)

Tulle Tulle Tumblr

Story writes itself

RACHEL: AND CAN PEOPLE BE HOT NOW AND NOT BE IN HIGH SCHOOL?