Last night, I finished The Basic Eight. It's the first (FICTION) book in a while that I truly love and adore, thank you Daniel Handler. Over my long glorious winter break I only read a few things, one of them being Allie Brosh's Hyperbole and a Half, an illustrated blog-turned-memoir. It was truly so funny and mysteriously heartbreaking, and I was laughing out loud, which I don't often do when I intake funny media. But then I read Beautiful Creatures, which mostly kept me entertained but didn't leave me with any feelings and then I tried to read A Discovery of Witches, but couldn't get back into it after I set it down. I suppose it's one of those must-reads that must-be-read in one sitting. I read the majority of it en route from NYC to Cleveland and couldn't get back into the narrative when I sat down in my messy attic bedroom at home to read it. Then, I tried Gone, some YA lit series that's not YA lit in the way that I like YA lit, like, this was truly meant for fifteen-year-olds and I'm sad that I'm not that anymore.
And then, The Basic Eight. Could talk about it forever, probably, akin to the Why We Broke Up saga that took up LITERALLY all of 2013, or did you already read that somewhere? Daniel Handler is truly a master of first-person perspective and female perspective and now I'm wondering how I can learn to write to make people feel or if I ever will.
Crazily and unexpectedly, classes resumed yesterday. I wish I had more friends. Or really I just wished I were able to make an impression here to make people miss me but it's hard for some reason, still, even when things are better and happier, hard for me always to get outside of my head. I replay every conversation I have immediately after having it, like my mind is some sort of phonograph or whatever, a tape recorder, a conveyor belt that keeps regurgitating repeatedly. Even having friends, I want more.
Trying to do more with eyeliner in this new year, but there is only one thing to be done and that is uneven black wings. I don't recognize myself in the mirror without the glasses, the eyeliner, the freshly-woken face too pink in the morning to be real. Still mad about the whole fraternity thing. Someday, my anger is going to become me and my face will never recover from the glare.
If I die, someday, in the far-off future, if dying still exists and we aren't just exported to some other planet when we age, they are going to discover that running through these veins is not blood, whatever color it actually is - red with oxygen - they will discover that it is Diet Coke, and I've had too much. Sometimes it doesn't even taste good. It's just habit.