Perhaps the routine of parenting turns up the subconscious, because 老婆 is saying all the dreaming’s leaving her less rested, too. Me, I brushed with celebrity, seated in the back next to an embarrassed Johnny Depp at a gala honoring Anne Hathaway, then played House’s brother like Frasier’s Niles on an action-packed paparazzi escapade, and last night made a big ruckus at a Ralphs counter over an improperly-delivered piece of cheesecake. (Which seems unlikely, after downing a cream cheese-filled crêpe at IHOP last weekend.) The act felt so forced that I woke up questioning whether or not I keep it up only to qualify myself with character. But today at Vie de France was an utter twat who insisted on having a conversation with some acquaintances standing at their table in a room full of seated patrons who had waited over thirty minutes for theirs. He kept his arm around his partner, who occupied the fourth chair for the party of three and listened as he broadcast his drivel. Bugged the hell outta me. So no, it’s who I am.
윤
And how does a man of letters as myself—or my school records make me out to be—begin a new journal?
Leave a Reply