sometimes i want to be fucking glamourous. and then i feel guilty b/c i'm feeling what every american kid feels at some point. wanting to be known or just to be really fucking good at something.
in other news, i can't sleep in the middle of my bed. nor can i sleep on my side of the bed. perhaps in lieu of my literary affair with the wind up bird chronicle i realize i sleep in the transitory middle state of the bed with its rumpled sheets the same as when you were here and still my warm body and my ear to whisper to. i used to wake up and start talking to you, not realizing you weren't there until the morning. i miss you love.
this song always remind me of you and steve zissou in washington in the winter.