Time flies when you're having fun!
Well, yeah. Who can really doubt or refute that? Or, more frequently, its converse.
Every weekend I spend in Princeton is a "relaxing" one. One that doesn't in the least bit seem to "fly". But without these weekends I probably wouldn't have time to do things like read three books. Redo my nails. Think about the seasonality of produce. Spend an (astonishing new word: quaquaversal that I found while trying to confirm that unduly was an adverb. As in,) unduly long amount of time watching TV. Oh, this battle that I wage against boredom. Can I call it a path towards self-improvement? I don't think I'm improving. I still don't laugh at things unless I think they're funny.
To expound a bit on the moving parts of my weekend: I went to the library to pay my debts and pick up some books. I don't think I've enjoyed too many works of fiction since, say, sophomore year of high school. And those would be probably An Invisible Sign of My Own, The God of Small Things, Franny and Zooey, The Autograph Man, and Mansfield Park. So, the non-fiction books I borrowed were: The Year of Magical Thinking, French Women Don't Get Fat, and Julie and Julia. Maybe there's a theme. They seemed like "easy" reads. French food, the nature of grief.
I enjoyed them all, despite feeling acutely different from the narrators of any. In terms of mood, The Year of Magical Thinking felt like a villanelle and French Women Don't Get Fat all delightfully French and lilting on that Catherine in Jules et Jim level, um, especially in terms of how infuriating it is that I tried to eat only "Magical Leek Soup" today but didn't make it past four hours. Ugh.
Julie and Julia was somewhat harrowing to read, what with the maggots and profanity, but ultimately enjoyable because she is unabashedly happy at the end! I guess what precludes me from enjoying books these days is that I can't really catch anything in what I read, other than the mood. Maybe this is why I don't feel so bad reading magazines. What are they, really, but two-dimensional dioramas constructed to envelop you in some mood for an hour?
Vogue: quite a bit of "moral" outrage transfixed by the occasional wistful sigh. or is it more wistful outrage transfixed by the occasional "moral" sigh?
Lucky: chatting with a ridiculously lovable spendthrift
Nylon: [pushing up hipster glasses], [wishing I were Dani Stahl]
Um, so, French food. I'm going to start my French cooking lessons on Tuesday! And I'm definitely not spending next weekend in Princeton. I can't spend too much more of my time not laughing. This whole post was totally not funny. I think after reading Julie and Julia I got a little inspired to be more "bloggy" and less of an idiot (hence proper capitalization and such). Not funny.
Well, yeah. Who can really doubt or refute that? Or, more frequently, its converse.
Every weekend I spend in Princeton is a "relaxing" one. One that doesn't in the least bit seem to "fly". But without these weekends I probably wouldn't have time to do things like read three books. Redo my nails. Think about the seasonality of produce. Spend an (astonishing new word: quaquaversal that I found while trying to confirm that unduly was an adverb. As in,) unduly long amount of time watching TV. Oh, this battle that I wage against boredom. Can I call it a path towards self-improvement? I don't think I'm improving. I still don't laugh at things unless I think they're funny.
To expound a bit on the moving parts of my weekend: I went to the library to pay my debts and pick up some books. I don't think I've enjoyed too many works of fiction since, say, sophomore year of high school. And those would be probably An Invisible Sign of My Own, The God of Small Things, Franny and Zooey, The Autograph Man, and Mansfield Park. So, the non-fiction books I borrowed were: The Year of Magical Thinking, French Women Don't Get Fat, and Julie and Julia. Maybe there's a theme. They seemed like "easy" reads. French food, the nature of grief.
I enjoyed them all, despite feeling acutely different from the narrators of any. In terms of mood, The Year of Magical Thinking felt like a villanelle and French Women Don't Get Fat all delightfully French and lilting on that Catherine in Jules et Jim level, um, especially in terms of how infuriating it is that I tried to eat only "Magical Leek Soup" today but didn't make it past four hours. Ugh.
Julie and Julia was somewhat harrowing to read, what with the maggots and profanity, but ultimately enjoyable because she is unabashedly happy at the end! I guess what precludes me from enjoying books these days is that I can't really catch anything in what I read, other than the mood. Maybe this is why I don't feel so bad reading magazines. What are they, really, but two-dimensional dioramas constructed to envelop you in some mood for an hour?
Vogue: quite a bit of "moral" outrage transfixed by the occasional wistful sigh. or is it more wistful outrage transfixed by the occasional "moral" sigh?
Lucky: chatting with a ridiculously lovable spendthrift
Nylon: [pushing up hipster glasses], [wishing I were Dani Stahl]
Um, so, French food. I'm going to start my French cooking lessons on Tuesday! And I'm definitely not spending next weekend in Princeton. I can't spend too much more of my time not laughing. This whole post was totally not funny. I think after reading Julie and Julia I got a little inspired to be more "bloggy" and less of an idiot (hence proper capitalization and such). Not funny.