I keep things. I’m a writer. I’m a magpie, forever collecting little snippets and factoids and clippings and stuffing them into the notebook I take everywhere with me, like I’m totally trying to cultivate an image (yes, it is a Moleskine notebook). I’m also a hoarder (thanks, Ma). This extends to things on the interwebs. So these are the things I keep on my record.

A girl who reads perceives the difference between a parenthetical moment of anger and the entrenched habits of someone whose bitter cynicism will run on, run on well past any point of reason, or purpose, run on far after she has packed a suitcase and said a reluctant goodbye and she has decided that I am an ellipsis and not a period and run on and run on. Syntax that knows the rhythm and cadence of a life well lived. This is just.. I can’t even… God. I hate hate hate the person who wrote this. Damn it.

Josh Olson will not read your fucking script. Here’s why.

“The bottom line is that life is short, and you owe it to yourself to spend the majority of it giving yourself wholly and completely to something you absolutely hate, and 20 minutes here and there doing what you feel you were put on this earth to do.” Once again, The Onion has the truth, and the truth is mighty painful.

I don’t have any siblings. This article makes me wish like hell that I did.


When I’m rich I’ll buy all of these.

There’s this book called The Operators that I got for free when I was a reporter, and I’ve been meaning to read it for a long time, because it was written by a Rolling Stone reporter based on a series of articles he wrote for the magazine a couple of years ago. Just when I was about to really, finally start reading it, the author, Michael Hastings, was killed in a car accident in LA. Which is stupid and sad because he spent his life traversing war zones and then some loser runs a red light, or something, and then he’s gone. And I still haven’t read his book.

Why do Finnish babies sleep in cardboard boxes? I’m glad you asked.

— As at March 26, 2014.



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