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Listening to Leonard Cohen. It’s all so serious with this tone that the world is necessarily sad and foreboding, but nonetheless our wayward souls, craving and lusting and desirous of something we’re unsure of, trudge forward in rags, alternately hopeful and resigned, shedding tears, breaking hearts, and eventually dying of exhaustion tainted with cigarette smoke and whiskey. And to top it off I just spent some time reading journal entries – entered in the same word doc I type your letters in – from last June. It was a time of tumult and perhaps too much drug use. The entries reeked of striving for personal change, desperation… but you know what, it was sort of refreshing because they also reeked of honesty, of a reasonable and heartfelt take on myself and the people around me. No judgments were too harsh and none sugar-coated. Also, my perspective now is different. I don’t want to leave Bug, I don’t feel the same way about certain people in my life, and it’s that kind of change/looking-back that centers me and reminds me not to overreact.
This letter is sort of emotional and general, but I blame the restrospection and Leonard Cohen. I don’t feel depressed, just stuffed. I ate so much this weekend and then last night went to a nice Italian restaurant called Bamonte’s in Williamsburg. Why do Italian restaurants serve such huge portions… what do they gain!? Do they delight in our struggle to control ourselves, our shameful stumbling attempt to leave their establishment gorged on linguine with red clam sauce? I can only assume yes… those bastards.
I think I’ll go outside and high five a stranger.
PS: Holy crap! My boss came in and just asked me to send him the link to the beard trimmer vibrator that me and one of the other assistants just bought! We’re like some weird hygiene gang.