I've thought of a thousand things to say, recently, but haven't actually said any of them. I guess the desire is more momentary than anything else.
Today was fine, I suppose. Nothing special. We're looking for a summer sublet -- I hate how anonymous and random it seems -- living with strangers, really not my thing. I haven't found anything great yet but my mom has a contact who owns a bunch of rentals in the area so maybe that will rustle up something. Sigh.
I'm a little tired of arguing about whether Renee Nare (of La Vagabonde, a Colette novel) is feminist in her decisions. She's a woman alone, and she's had a shitty painter husband (Antoine Taillandy), and if she wants to reinforce her own misery by not marrying Maxime at the end of the novel, so be it. It's not that being alone defines a woman as feminist or antifeminist, it's that she establishes her ability to choose the lifestyle that she thinks is best. Even if it sort of sucks. Such is French romance.
Moving on -- I went shopping to forget the stress of housing, and then I went running to forget the stress of shopping. I don't know what to say about that. Not to be pessimistic, but I'm awkwardly in between clothing sizes and I don't appreciate it. If I'm not going to fit into my riding jeans from last summer, I need to establish that now so I can go buy ones that fit -- but the next size is too big, and I know it will be worse once they wear in and stretch out. Or, I need to get my butt in gear and fit back into those jeans. That might be better, since I really can't afford a whole new riding wardrobe. Sigh.
That was remarkably deadpan of me. Aren't you proud?
come on Virginia, show me a sign
send up a signal, i'll throw you a line
the stained glass curtain you're hiding behind
never lets in the sun
i tell you only the good die young
reading: DMP application (arrrgh)
listening to: name // the goo goo dolls
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