Sunday, November 07, 2004
let it fall.
watch--she's about to lean back.
music has always helped me forget women. both the beautiful ones that i shared chocolate milk with in third grade, the ones i shared notes with in Chemistry and the ones i went to art museums with, um, after third grade. and it hasn't failed me now.
the light licking blackness, a portable turntable on my bed walking in circles and some ramen on the stove: what else were Sundays, invented by the British, made for?
so, just kick back, drink some Japanese apple juice and open up the New York Times webpage (hey, it doesnt hurt to act like your zipcode is in Brooklyn) and scour David Foster Wallace's erudite and menacing critique of some Oxford academic's dry ass take on Jorge Luis Borges. it makes the day seem more real.
and couple that with this match made in a Hollywood afterparty. Sundays couldnt get any better. who knew Quest, with all those stripper poles in the studio, had an affinity for the prettiest chain-smoker off Rodeo Drive? i'm jealous.
in any case, look to the Red Sox people. and pepper passion only when necessary.
go, get strong.
there is an apartment in Mexico City with your name on it....
