you can just ignore this.

I'm not one of those girls who talks about her boyfriend constantly. But, Jesus Christ, I can't keep this in. I really think this one is perfect.

Example: He picks me up at the airport yesterday. Instead of driving around and around the arrivals area, he parks and arrives in the baggage claim before I do. Sigh. In his hand, he's carrying a jar of fresh flowers. I hand him a sandwich I bought from Bonne Sante. Then we go out to his car and he opens the trunk to put my bag away (which, by the way, he's been carrying for me). Inside the trunk, there is a cooler filled with ice. He tells me to open it. There are two large bubble milk teas from the Quickly in San Gabriel. Then we go home and talk about books and make each other laugh. And he's been writing all week. And... And... And he. is. amazing.

Sorry. Girl moment. It's over and will never happen again.

yawn.

It's just ridiculous.

He's such a fucking loser. That's why I was so confused, going through so many "transitions." Because he's such a fucking loser. It's impossible to convince myself I didn't deserve better.

Sorry. A bit of ranting. I'm just frustrated.

Back in L.A. tomorrow. yayzers.

waiting for pancakes and morning kisses.

In commemoration of my summer internship with HarperCollins, I present to you a fabulous quote about literature from Roberto Bolano's The Savage Detectives (okay, it's published by FSG, but I still love it). This book borders on brilliant, but is also easily digestable, sexy, and down-to-earth.

"Sometimes, when I've had too much to drink, I find myself cursing him, him and all those literary types who've forgotten me, and the hired killers waiting for me in the dark, and even the typesetters, lost in glory or anonymity, but then I relax and I can't stop laughing. You have to live your life, that's all there is to it. A drunk I met the other day on my way out of the bar La Mala Senda told me so. Literature is crap."

And another quote, about those moments of clarity, like when you realize that you moved on because you had to and it was all for the best and that those innocent feelings were just that.

"And the boys were in the front room, sitting there waiting for me, and one of them had bought two bottles of tequila. Ah, what a relief to come into the light, even when it's a shadowy half-light, what a relief to come where it's clear."

green orange pink purple.

I just got an OVERWHELMING urge to go to grad school. What is wrong with me?

I think it's just that I'm not ready to plan for the future yet and to think about having one job for the rest of my life. I like the idea of traveling the world, volunteering, living in Ireland for a long while, seeing all the things I never thought I'd realistically see. I don't want to think about being roped in. Plus, I kind of love college, and I really don't feel like it's time for my formal education to be over. I want to discover new ideas and read new ideas and exchange them for a long while. But then again, we all know how exhausting that is. Ugh, I can't even think. I just want someone to plan my life for me. I also just want to never have a plan. I also just want to never have to feel the need to plan or not plan or do anything at all. Yes, I know there are split infinitives in those last two sentences. No, I will not change them. I'm in an existential crisis.

drip drop the crystal water.

I've been home since Thursday, but suddenly all the home-ness of home just evaporated. Joe was here, staying in my brother's room, and my parents absolutely adore him. Though they haven't stated it explicitly, here is my compilation of their weird reasons/expectations for my boyfriends:

• He eats well.
• His mother is from Mississippi.
• He made his bed in the morning (My mom's words: "His momma raised him right").
• He talked about fishing with my dad.
• He put up with my bad TV watching (one of my mom's requirements)
• He likes literature (one of my dad's)
• He's tall and can reach things on high-up shelves (mom's)
• He has a Prius (dad's)
• I think mostly because they can see that we're happy. Not in a kind of rushed and infinitely energetic high school way, but in a much stabler sense. And I think that's healthy. That's one of my requirements these days.

As for showing him around town, I basically shared with him my reasons for loving where I live. We got boba every single day we were in town, we went to North Beach, Palo Alto, Telegraph/Coit, Half Moon Bay, Haight area (for coffee and shopping), Golden Gate Park, and we spent a lot of time at home relaxing/reading/watching TV and movies/eating/seeing Sammy/and so on.

But now he's gone and my parents took off on a trip with their friends, and I feel deflated. That's okay though, I guess. It just means that the rest of my break will be a different kind of fun.

an extension.

Still procrastinating on this paper.

I found this postmodern essay generator. If you keep hitting refresh, it writes a new ridiculous essay for you. Very clever.

A Postcultural Paradigm of Scholarly Pursuit?

I have got to start being cooler.

loafers and slacks.

Dearest Joseph,

I know you promised to never read my blog, but I don't believe you. :)

I have a special message just for you: Michael Stipe came out of the closet on Monday. So, you know, if you want to leave me for him, I'd understand. He may be a little too old for you though. But, overall, I think you'd make a cute couple. You could borrow his scarves and stuff.



Hugs and Kisses,
Carrie

new developments.

I'm becoming vegan. I'm super excited.

pieces of paper and broken pencils.

Things I will do in San Francisco/why I love the City/why I have a hard time eating at Los Angeles restaurants/reasons to never live anywhere else:

1. Palace of Fine Arts
2. Alamo Square Park
3. Row boats
4. Sandwiches
   
5. Gardens and flowers
6. de Young
7. Parisian-sounding accordions and dance stages and park benches
8. Sushi boats
9. Sandwiches
10. French sandwiches
11. North Beach
    
12. Steps of Rome
13. City Lights and Francis Ford Coppola
14. Telegraph and Nob Hill
15. Half Moon Bay and Main Street and artichokes and sandwiches
16. Seafood
17. Berkeley's dirty charm
18. Mission and burritos and vintage shopping
19. Rangoon in Palo Alto and hot and sour soup
20. Boba
21. The Guild
    
22. Boba
23. Boba
24. Sandwiches
    

grey like grass.

I don't want to write anymore. I can't write. All I can think about is home home home and being so done with this paper that I can't remember ever having done it.

precipice.

It's like the time when I ran away from home and slept in the back of my parents' van and no one could find me. I always liked to run away from home. As I got older, running away from home simply meant putting a sheet over the small table in the living room and hiding there. Or it's like the time when my seventh grade science teacher caught me writing the animal kingdoms on my palm and I said that I wrote them there to help me study and then he watched me wash my hands in the sink. Yes, it's like when I watched the black ink melt from my skin and dance with the water all the way down the drain. Or no. It's more like when my dad found his old projector and we sat down to watch slides of my parents traveling around America. From place to place, new smiles, new outfits, new beards, new feathered hair styles. Then one picture wasn't so pleasant. We packed up the projector and put it back in the closet, way up at the top so us kids couldn't reach it. I don't like to think of that time. So I'll say it's actually exactly like my first boy-girl birthday party. We clustered into Sam's garage and kissed and played cards and drank Coca-Cola. Every discovery was an epiphany. Every new song sounded the tune of the rest of the summer. Every smile was charged with children on the edge of awakenings of so many sorts. Yes. Yes. It's just like that. All of the pride and suspicion and excitement and apprehension and hunger for more.

so long, my dear friend.

There is something quiet in you that makes me want to forget all my commitments and imagined realities and drive to Argentina and Portland and San Francisco and Atlanta and Chicago and Maine and smile and take photographs until the years pass and I finally realize that I never accomplished any of the things I wanted to accomplish and that I actually accomplished so much more than anyone could have ever mapped out for me.

On beautiful days, I think of this.

more promotion.

Stuff White People Like.

Amazing. I can't wait to hear about the author's book deal.

I think it's pretty white of me to like the blog in the first place, which itself is a terrible unstoppable paradox of comedic genius.

My two personal favorites as of now:
The Toyota Prius. I'm guilty!
Making you feel bad about about not going outside. One of my dad's specialties.

I attribute my finding of the blog to my friend Zachary. Thanks, duder.

thus spake...

So I'm a nerd, and I like to look at modernist literature blogs.

A very interesting comparison between Nietzsche and William Faulkner. It's pretty rough and not at all comprehensive, but the idea interests me.

No one cares except me and other English majors.

long forgotten.

Why can't I EVER be happy with what I'm given? I could go on and on and on about it, but I really don't think anyone cares or wants to hear my self-pity. Besides, I can't even explain why I'm unhappy in the first place. I just am. I wish it didn't have to involve other people though. In an ideal world, I would be able to do this on my own.

I went to another publishing workshop yesterday, where we talked about creating stories people want to read. Right now, I'm supposed to suck it up and conquer my problems and move on. People want to read about your triumphs, not your personal issues.

I agree. So I guess that makes me a hypocrite.

baguettes and rue de la paix.

Things I want right now:
To take off a week of school and go to sxsw.
To go to New York as soon as humanly possible.
To see Doctor Phil.
To sleep for days.
To eat deli sandwiches and sushi.
To go to New Zealand.
To save Sammy from sadness forever.
To pay off all my bills.
To drink endless amounts of bubble milk tea.
To scream.
To fly to Puerto Vallarta and drink margaritas and sing.
To feel like my father knows me.
To have ten thousand dollars.
To fall fall fall until falling doesn't exist.

photojournalism.

Why can't he just be happy for me? You're his little girl, Carrie. No one will ever be good enough.

green as an ocean.

In a dark living room in Ireland, lit by one solitary candle, you asked me to choose my favorite author. And my favorite book. And why. In the dark, I whispered those words from Shakespeare:

"Life... is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury
Signifying nothing."

And then you kissed me, held my hand.

But I wish I had remembered the rest:

"To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time,
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!"

Then it wouldn't seem so romantic.

diamonds and glass everywhere, falling.

I guess it's all my fault. It's not like I don't have the power to make these decisions. My body is so tired. I can't remember the last time I felt well-rested. I could easily reverse this. I could just say the truth - that I'm tired, that I need to go home and go to sleep. But every time I'm with him, I don't want to sleep. I force myself to stay up, to spend more time with him, to share one more thing.

I've watched three David Gordon Green movies in the last five days. Last night, we went to a screening of his new movie, Snow Angels. It was beautiful. I think the way that he portrays relationships is starting to distort my own conception of them. He always captures these deceptively simple, epiphany moments and turns them into poetry. When I watch them, I just think, I want that. But, for the most part, I don't think people talk that way. Except the other day, Joe said something to me that gave me the chills. Unfortunately, I was so tired that I fell asleep after he said it and now I can't remember what it was. So, yes, things have come full circle.

I'm kind of obsessed with Olivia Thirlby right now, too. She's fucking amazing.

blue sounds and singing.

I have nothing new to say. Well, we finally have a fully furnished living room now that the year is more than halfway over. I have no money. I ate two hot dogs and a cinnamon bun. I have three papers to write, one to edit, two books to read, six articles to read, and a short story to write in Old English.

Some people make me very sad. Their lives seem so unfulfilling. As for me, I am so full of good things that I have nothing to complain about, and thus have nothing to write about. I guess that's kind of sad too.