How could I even begin to phrase this correctly?
So you have a personal blog. I get it. You’re retro. You’re ahead of the curve. You have a great vocabulary and you live in a crappy apartment and you love it. You sit on your bed like Carrie Bradshaw and you smile because you know your tweets are better than everyone else’s.
But how can you not write about everything that is personal to you? How can you observe and yet not feel any connection to your own relationships and your own philosophies? Maybe you’re just not so juvenile like me.
The new Francis Bacon show at the Met is mind-blowing. I don’t even know how to describe the experience. Inspiring. ”champagne for my real friends, real pain for my sham friends.” Printed and sold on two champagne flutes that will someday be mine.
How could I even begin to phrase this correctly? I still care about what you think. It still pains me to think of you physically intimate with another person. Sometimes I sit and stare at him because I have so much to say about you and it is embarrassing that your name could even appear in my mind. Sometimes its nice to bring up the ‘rents and everything else I know I will be complaining about for the next forty years, but this doesn’t get any easier. My mind doesn’t let this get any easier. And I swear it’s something I’m working on.
My eyes hurt from thinking about going to sleep. My dreams have never had such a lasting effect on the day. How our minds fill like buckets.
What a well the self must be if you could find it.
I’m afraid I’ve grown too needy. Goodnight.
