- I am in fucking awe of how expensive my flight to LA is going to be. AWE, I tell you.
Whenever I have to fly to LA, I get funny about it. Even having grown up in the myth of New York, I am seduced by the myth of LA, even though I hate it.
I worry about looking cute (cute? cute!) for the flight.
I worry about having the right luggage (in fact, one of the greatest fantasies of my life revolved around the cute (again with the cute!) luggage I insisted on buying for my Australia trip, just in case I ran into anyone who was anyone in the Sydney airport).
I worry about whether there should be a legal limit to the number of issues of Variety allowed on a single jet.
LA seduces me with the narrative of outsiders who get lucky, although I've never been _that_ type of outsider. I hate LA, but I love the idea of it, I guess. And maybe this will help me on my little chick-lit project. The LA _feeling_ is a bit central to the internal narratives of it. I know, I know, chick-lit isn't supposed to have internal narratives (or, you know, actual people with actual souls), but I really love this idea. There's a symmetry to it. A real goodness in the idea that I can make a ridiculous story out of every little half-assed bullshit 30 second heartbreak I stumble across.
See? LA fucks my shit up. Los Angeles loves love.
- I am really, really going to try to catch up with email today. We'll see.
- I am also really, really going to try to leave work early today so I can go try to find a new winter coat (first frost tonight!) and do some house cleaning while Patty drinks with the pick-axe wielding set.
- I had a stupid hypochondriac freakout the other night. Patty was sane. I remain embarrassed. Good thing she likes me.
- Am nervously awaiting verdict on a bit of workplace work.
- Craaaaaaazy weekend, full of work. But I do get to sleep in tomorrow. And that's not just something, but might be close to everything.
Whenever I have to fly to LA, I get funny about it. Even having grown up in the myth of New York, I am seduced by the myth of LA, even though I hate it.
I worry about looking cute (cute? cute!) for the flight.
I worry about having the right luggage (in fact, one of the greatest fantasies of my life revolved around the cute (again with the cute!) luggage I insisted on buying for my Australia trip, just in case I ran into anyone who was anyone in the Sydney airport).
I worry about whether there should be a legal limit to the number of issues of Variety allowed on a single jet.
LA seduces me with the narrative of outsiders who get lucky, although I've never been _that_ type of outsider. I hate LA, but I love the idea of it, I guess. And maybe this will help me on my little chick-lit project. The LA _feeling_ is a bit central to the internal narratives of it. I know, I know, chick-lit isn't supposed to have internal narratives (or, you know, actual people with actual souls), but I really love this idea. There's a symmetry to it. A real goodness in the idea that I can make a ridiculous story out of every little half-assed bullshit 30 second heartbreak I stumble across.
See? LA fucks my shit up. Los Angeles loves love.
- I am really, really going to try to catch up with email today. We'll see.
- I am also really, really going to try to leave work early today so I can go try to find a new winter coat (first frost tonight!) and do some house cleaning while Patty drinks with the pick-axe wielding set.
- I had a stupid hypochondriac freakout the other night. Patty was sane. I remain embarrassed. Good thing she likes me.
- Am nervously awaiting verdict on a bit of workplace work.
- Craaaaaaazy weekend, full of work. But I do get to sleep in tomorrow. And that's not just something, but might be close to everything.