I love waking up at noon. I think I now have eye bags big enough to store mount everest. Sushi at Yorkville is still the best.
I was reminded of the following correspondance yesterday. I smiled.
I laughed when someone mistook my writing for that of an intimidating 6 feet tall east-european girl. I like irony. Most of the time.
It's good to have conversations in the same parks that evoke paperbagged alcohol from a few years back.
Oh, and I almost forgot to add: "You will regret not taking that brown-haired sexy-red-lipped sexpert's advice!!!!(She probably was a virgin in disguise anyways.)"
Sometime in June:
This summer promises to be empty and passionless, and for that I am sad. Everything I do is supposed to be geared toward alkenes, and polymerases, and electric fields, and three paragraphed essays that make a cookie cutter look like something out of Dali’s dopamine induced imagination. All I ever wanted was to laugh in the sun with chocolate falling all around and my fat little children squealing around my wife’s never ending legs. You spoke beautifully at my wedding, but it was in Chinese so I only understood the swear words.
Never forget to breathe. You were bored, so I have come up with a list of activities, you must do every one.
- Climb the Eiffel tower citing Baudelaire with each step.
- Never stop screaming
- Invent an 11th commandment
- Make vodka vice president of Russia
- Bring back Viking raids
- Tell a really powerfull wizard his magical sigils took like lucky charms
That should keep you busy for awhile, I’m not sure if you can do any of these in china, but they seem like a helpful non militant people so I would bet you can kick some ass into shape and get things done. I wonder if you still wear the black, and if it has melted you into some kind of jenny jelly, which I am sure would go well with sarcasm and laughter. I rarely speak to anyone from college anymore and somehow I am not so bothered by that as I am by the fact that we have locked a bat in our basement and are waiting to see how long it takes a bat to starve… so far it has been two days.
I must go and eat and run and do all the things I do to avoid work without feeling guilty. I shall miss you when you are in china discovering and exploring and walking, but I be happy when you come back and we share a drink and a song in Montreal.
Twenty two fourteen. That is the key to the universe. They all say 42. But I tell you it’s wrong. So I’m right.
I’ve grown senile over the years, David. I listen to too much music, write too much nonsense and watch too many dreams. The sane animals out there will say it’s unhealthy, but I’ve ceased to care. I like eating sunshine dust, smelling the petals of cloud and touching warm and fuzzy memories. And I also like apologizing for my randomness. Maybe I should stop apologizing and start living. But I’m haunted by a stupid little leprechaun who comes and stabs me in the back with an Arabian dagger incrusted of pink Mongolian diamonds whenever I want to break free.
Talks of weddings and boxed personalities scare me. I run away from feelings like a startled mare. I just want to curl up inside a corner of my sub-temporal sulcus or to die a supra sensitive death due to overdose of glutamate. But I digress.
There are bells running on my fingertips as Explosions radiate onto my cochlea. There is no more truths to be heard because only the heart of a Chinese adolescent girl once heeded them. But time has eaten truth alive and truth has set time on fire. There is no truth like time.
Montreal is the city of Gods. Each night, while fulfilling my duties as a social half-tequilaed street roamer, I feel the feathery embrace of misery taking shape inside of me like the image of a red-nosed polish drunk eating grapes with a prepubescent thespian concubine.
As you worry about dissecting some more academic essays, I sit here in front of my books and bones, and I wonder if I will ever be able to grasp reality again. I have married absurdity like a cheap whore who wishes she could say No as easily as France and the Netherlands.
China is my motherland. My mother has always hated me and wished I were never born. I am an undeserving child of 5000 years of history. Did you know that women were made first out of dust? Chinese creationist myths say so. I always knew it. Breasts are too beautiful to be made to simply complement. They were an original creation.
Too bad the Viking raids have been eaten by corpulent French queens called Marie-Antoinette, and that vodka is too transparent to be president of Russia. Too bad Moses will rape me if I invented an 11th commandment stating “Thou shall not rape”. You should also know that I’ve been bound to silence for two years now and that I have shamefully lost my lust for Baudelaire on a drunken night of lethargy.
Maybe someday I’ll meet a wizard.
Meanwhile, I need to sleep.
I will write more, but today, I’m too sad to write.
Good night Dearest David.