What i eat in a day
Alphabetizing my consumption
A handful of M&M’s. A near perverse fascination with Holiday Inn hotels and their claustrophobic green light. Abandoned rooms, atonement pleasure. Alone and surrounded. An oreo. Ancient knowledge from TikTok. Annie Hall. Ariana Grande bodychecking. Ariana Grande pouting face. Arriving gently at a half-wanted place and leaving early. Articles are hard to respect sometimes when they have this tone to them where the author is earnestly oblivious to the fact things have happened to others before him. Ayurvedic fixes. Bad sentences matter more than the good ones. Being forgiven. Being with him. Boy with an ocean blue heart. Celebrities launching book clubs. Chronicles of staying still. Clean cold air. Coffee tastes better when somebody else makes it. Cold brew. Crushing it. Debris. Doubting. Drones everywhere. Dry elbows.
Eggleston’s Americana. Enshrined ideas. Everything is archaic and the websites are outdated, I say, but they will say it’s not their fault I’m talentless; they’re not wrong. Everything is either nuclear or unresolved, politics is both. Expecting a man to get it, and he might get close, but then he’ll boast and brag about it forever, which defeats the purpose. Fiona Apple’s There’s no hope for women. Flatlining over the canal. Flossing, drinking sake, going home. Fran Lebowitz is right about 99% of things. Fresh wind from the thunderstorm. Functionally and not masturbatory. Godard’s selfish dialogues. Gossamer lines on my skirt. He likes me, I have every piece of evidence. Heaviness of the body. High fidelity speakers.
I don’t remember any of my previous apartments or the faces of the people I was supposedly in love with, so I don’t have memoir material. I first found that book at the antique shop in Malmö right when I met him and then I didn’t read another book for ages, we were preoccupied. I shall lie on top of him in a fetal position forever and nothing can touch me, nothing including my relentless ambition. I’m not the girl who misses much. I want peace too, it’s not just them. In lieu of entitlement. Ingrown hair is the body protesting against its beautification. Is this all I’ll ever get to feel. It must look easy. It shouldn’t be hard. It makes me very lonely how preoccupied everyone’s been with success. It’s been just a little over four years, still nauseating. Jean Paul Gaultier print. Keeping good things. Kissing in arrivals then feeling embarrassed forever. Knowing that it’s too late in life for me to hone my skill through a competitive eating disorder and if I were to give into deep neuroses of the mind, I’d have to put that to socially formidable and respectable use and get married, run a marathon, or get a PhD.
Lacking sharpness. Leaving is the point. Macrocosmic disappointment. Making mommy proud. Maraschino cherries and Knots by R.D. Laing. He wants her to want him To get him to want her she pretends she wants him To get her to want him he pretends he wants her. My LinkedIn inbox. My music taste is never above whatever is trending on the internet because it’s probably good, and the same cannot be said about literature. My trivial knowledge of the world around me and everything weighing me down. Not washing fruit or berries, “I’m training my immune system”. Paris. Peptide ads. Realization no one will ever love me like I should love myself but I can’t love myself like that because I know no one will love me like I should love myself. Red fishes with their orange tails, swimming in circles, showing that another way is possible. Rejection practice. Selective forgetting. Self-evasion in a city. Simplicity of mind. Stardom preferences. Success is a magpie, blue tail. Surreptitious kissin’.
TBC: to be confirmed; TBI: to be impressed; use that when you’re reading something painfully boring. The blurred boundary between those coming home at sunrise and those heading to work, meeting along the way just in this only instance, there is no other way for them to meet. The characters in my novel inflated by their egos and subdued by the narrator’s empathy. The clarity in my face rises and goes like breathing, like the sun. The coerced line between thought and emotion. The ends that hang unprompted at the altar, waiting for me to rewrite them, but I refuse. The failure of neo-modernism. The joke doesn’t land and you’re left to this leathery heartache. The publishing industry bone marrow. The year he left. The year I’m writing about despite what the doctor said. Thicker skin is guaranteed when you’re in it long enough. Three what I eat in a day videos back to back and the girls all had very sad eyes. Times New Roman 12. Training wheels. What is my age worth. Whispering. Women don’t need to be warned about men any more than they need to be warned about themselves. You’ll benefit a lot from farming your fragility at the cost of fragility itself. You’ll be okay, please eat and sleep well.
Alphabetized my entries on success/beauty/love/body/life/food, some taken from my journals, others from my notes app. All credit goes to Sheila Heti and her incredible work Alphabetical Diaries.
i was about to be so scared
mmmm Love this food for thought