24 February 2006

She then performed a very innocuous gesture—moved an errant twirl of hair upward and over her ear. In doing so, she exposed a ribbon of white skin which the summer sun had been unable to reach. It was the sight of this skin that lifted the drunken, swooning Vladimir up and over the rickety wooden fence beyond which infatuations are kept, grazing off the fat of the heart. Such a thin, transluscent membrane, this stretch of skin. How could it ever guard the intellect from the suffocating summer air outside? Not to mention falling objects, perching birds, persons intent on doing harm. He thought he was going to cry. It was all so... But the childhood admonitions of his father were clear: no crying. He tried squinting instead.

—Gary Shteyngart, The Russian Debutante's Handbook


I've had a very distractible, flighty day, with loose ends fluttering throughout every edge of my peripheral vision. I've grabbed at quite a few of them and ripped them up, so hopefully there wasn't anything too important in there.


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It's slowly becoming very very late, but tomorrow morning it will be Friday and I will have what may be my first cup of coffee all week and it'll make me jumpily overactive and thrilled about it. I love doing what it takes to make legally sanctioned drugs have obvious and powerful effects upon my brainstate.


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We're shooting Parker's thesis film this weekend. Party with us, and become a piece of movie history.


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