someone once told me that they felt sorry for me when they read my writing, because it was obvious that I spend a lot of time alone.
that condescending conversation took place over a year ago and it still pisses me off when I think about it. it's such a wholly different spin on how I interpret things.
*
solitude has nothing to do with the existence of moments like this. but I feel honored to be witness to it.
my happy tree on a 73 degree May Monday, circa 650pm.
limbal rings are the darker borders around your irises. they lighten as we age so more pronounced ones are supposed to imply youthfulness and therefore "desirability". but what if your limbal-ringed eyeballs are surrounded by tired sunburn and Uncontrollable Resting BitchFace (TM)?
what then? so if I stare intently at you, it's only because I'm assessing your limbal rings, baby.
the La Crosse apartments, built in 1907. I have a particular crush on that aerie unit, which was originally built as an open-air rooftop pavilion. it's one of the first buildings in Seattle that had its own telephone system. in 1920 a resident put beehives on the roof and collected 40 gallons of honey in one year.
the bionic cactus pear, week 2.5. in honor of "Little Shop of Horrors", I christen this plant "Tawdry."
new shit on 9th.
I was actually, specifically just thinking about how much I wanted a pair of red, um, "please respect me" shoes. and the universe made it so.
"then she asked, 'what have you been doing all these years?'
I wished I had something impressive to say, but again I could think of nothing but the truth."
Iris Murdoch
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