you don't.

The sun waited until 6:00 to disappear completely this afternoon. We shook hands and I said "Thank you" and waved goodbye.

I am finding it hard to say what has been on my mind recently. It has been a lot of nothing-ness, things I will forget thinking about in a couple of weeks. I am worried that I am focusing too much on the frivolous, not enough on the important. It's hard when I am always so focused on the future.

I want to forget all about work, about the four papers to go until the end of the quarter, about the 600 pages to go, about the money I owe, about the plans I need to make before I go to England this summer. Instead, I want to get away and go camping. Or I want to drive somewere with a long name and a small population and I want to sleep in a motel and I want to wake up with the sky clearing.

And I hate how cliche and sentimental this all sounds. But it's what I want. I want to have several flings and then fling myself into the rest of the year. Everything else is just me biding my time.

i hate la.

This is an image of a seventeen year-old girl, Cory Kennedy, eating a popsicle.

I would also like to point out that it looks like an American Apparel ad, suggestive of innocent and naive sexuality: a paradox, perhaps in another place and time. This girl, Cory Kennedy, is apparently famous, although I have never heard of her before reading this L.A. Times article that my friend John sent me. Why would The Times waste this much ink on this girl? She is profiting off of the Lolita complex, and it disgusts me. Everyone in Los Angeles is obsessed with robbing children, especially girls, of their innocence and then turning around and commercializing it. This girl has no idea what she represents to Los Angeles: another corruptable young thing whose "fame" will die out once Mary Kate and Ashley finally give up on heroin chic and shift to more mature fashion focuses. And once she loses her fame, she will realize she has lost her childhood as well. Poor young thing. Living life like there are a thousand tomorrows.

epitaph.

"I was a man who stood in symbolic relations to the art and culture of my age... The gods had given me almost everything. I had genius, a distinguished name, high social position, brilliancy, intellectual daring; I made art a philosophy, and philosophy an art: I altered the minds of men and the colour of things: there was nothing I said or did that did not make people wonder... I treated Art as the supreme reality, and life as a mere mode of fiction: I awoke the imagination of my century so that it created myth and legend around me: I summed up all systems in a phrase, and all existence in an epigram."

Oscar Wilde

you'll see, in time.

I apologize for the lack of updates. School is just getting really hectic, seeing as it is seventh week.

Also, I have an appointment to meet with the Graduate Advisor for the literary magazine next Tuesday. My honors professor recommended me to be on the editorial board, so we'll see how that turns out. Lately, I've just been focusing a lot on what I will be doing with myself for the next seventy or so years. It's a bit time-consuming, as you may imagine.

new york, new york.

Fashion Week is genius. I think they started designing the Spring '07 lines with someone like me in mind. It's like they took all of my favorite colors-- the ones my mother used to tell me clashed and never to wear together-- and threw them on some skinny white chicks and called it a lovely, happy, colorful day. Lovin' it.

With special thank you's to:



Chris Benz (who is my new fave designer of the moment)


Derek Lam


Chaiken



Bill Blass


3.1 Phillip Lim



Behnaz Sarafpour

Oh, and, Marc Jacobs, you disappoint me.

Time to go shopping!

overheard in westwood.

Three things I overheard today that made me laugh to myself:

"So he broke up with you because you had a panic attack and you still slept with him?"

"So I asked this guy, 'Is this the line for the bathroom,' and he's like, 'Naw, man, this is the line to fuck that chick in there.' "

And, my personal favorite:
"I'm gay and I'm in a wheelchair-- deal with it."

Oh, human beings. How I adore thee.

okay or not.

Is life defined by the people in it? Or do you make your own meaning?

Are our days given meaning by the conversations we've had? The personal connections we've made? And if they are, is this a good thing, or is it symptomatic of a meaningless existance?

Are our days only as important as the changes we make, the physical manifestations of our time well-spent?

And why do I wonder about things I cannot change? That probably makes me the most useless type of person out there.

stars and stripes.

I called my dad yesterday to ask him how to fry okra for this dinner party I'm having on Saturday. Except instead of talking about that, we ended up talking about the social stratification of the South for 50 minutes.

And, you know what? I take back everything I said about the South. Guilt gets us nowhere, and, besides that, my professor seriously has no idea what the hell she is talking about. She is from the English countryside. So eff that. My family members are good people. And I will not give into the ever-pressing stereotype that anyone who lives south of Maryland is a KKK member or is a close friend of one.

So fuck Hollywood for instilling these stereotypes. It is the reason there is such a divide in America between red and blue.