The Cure.
<<2005-02-23 - 8:24 p.m.>> It's worth noting that after two of the shittiest, work-swamped-est days in the history of my Reed College education (and I'm swimming in a shirt I love, which sucks and which I cannot afford, and I just turned in an essay I know to be lousy, and I am having Creative Crisis Number Three Million And Twelve and will never do anything valuable with my life—and Moira worked at The New Yorker two summers ago!—and so on and so viciously, whiningly forth), what it takes to get me in a cheerful, contented, ready-to-read-Ulysses mood is precisely this: one (1) voicemail message from Ken."I just don't want any other boy," I thought cheerfully, and went to do the grocery shopping I'd been putting off. << - >> |