March gets me every time with its inscrutable whims, and now I kinda sound like Jonathan Edwards, but it could be worse. I could sound like Nicholas Sparks, or Rivers Cuomo, or James Franco (aaah I just dropped JF on this blog, it's definitely time to chase my favorite bottle of percocet with a handle of Evan Williams and call it a lovely afternoon).
Perplexed at whateverthefuckisgoingon, folding, unfolding, refolding clothing, uncertain what should be stored, what should be put to use, I unearth my Alaia sandals, the zenith of my Neiman Marcus Last Call discoveries. They are perfect sandals, distinctive yet neutral, unfalteringly comfortable, a means of elevating even the dumbest, laziest summer outfits. I know I will wear them soon, but for now I will enjoy this transitional climate, which is still preferable to that of January, I suppose.
I'm getting some super quality creative writing done. When I'm writing fiction it's difficult to know what will be funny, what will be tragic, and that sometimes makes me feel like a terrible writer, but then I'm like, wait a minute, it doesn't matter one bit, and it's how I live my life. One of the last times I had a serious good cry was over the stray kitten I used to feed smashed flat in the middle of 116th St. I'd like to say that's the worst thing that's happened to me in three years, but many other things just make me laugh, or feel stern, and not because I don't care, but what in the world else are you going to do?