A Cold Night for Alligators

26 Mar 2014


I cannot…describe what Mallory has done to an already terrifying book:

“Can you take someone else’s Real,” he asked, “or are you stuck getting it on your own?”

The Skin Horse looked at the Rabbit then.

“What I mean is,” the Rabbit said carefully. “If something else was already Real. Could you take it from them, and keep it for yourself.”

“No,” the Skin Horse said, and his voice was a crawling black thing across the floor. “You can’t take Real from another toy.”

But the Rabbit wasn’t finished. “Can you take the Real out of a boy? Can you take his heart in your own self and leave him with a sawdust heart on the nursery floor in your place?”

And the Skin Horse did not say anything.

“I suppose you are real?” said the Rabbit. And the Skin Horse was afraid for the first time in a long time.

1 Jan 2014

Books I Read in 2013

(My favorites are in bold.)

Looking for Alaska - John Green

Peyton Place - Grace Metalious

Cloud Atlas - David Mitchell

The Bears’ Famous Invasion of Sicily - Dino Buzzati

A Girl of the Limberlost - Gene Stratton-Porter

The Woman in Black - Susan Hill

The Pursuit of Love - Nancy Mitford

Love in a Cold Climate - Nancy Mitford

Jurassic Park - Michael Crichton

Never Let Me Go - Kazuo Ishiguro

The Yearling - Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings

The Liars’ Club - Mary Karr

The Mezzanine - Nicholson Baker

Dogs of Truth - Kit Reed

The Moonstone - Wilkie Collins

The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao - Junot Diaz

The House of Mirth - Edith Wharton

Bonjour Tristesse - Francoise Sagan

Code Name Verity - Elizabeth Wein

The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie - Muriel Spark

The Secret Diary of Adrian Mole, Aged 13 3/4 - Sue Townsend

Hons and Rebels - Jessica Mitford

Orange is the New Black - Piper Kerman

The Heart is a Lonely Hunter - Carson McCullers

Wolf Hall - Hilary Mantel

Nights at the Circus - Angela Carter

The Shining - Stephen King

Cold Comfort Farm - Stella Gibbons

White Noise - Don DeLillo

The Diary of a Young Girl: The Definitive Edition - Anne Frank

Jamaica Inn - Daphne du Maurier

Hemlock Grove - Brian McGreevy

The Bird’s Nest - Shirley Jackson

Papillon - Henri Charriere

Hyperbole and a Half - Allie Brosh

Books I Didn’t Finish Because They Were Boring:

Winter’s Tale - Mark Helprin

The House on the Strand - Daphne du Maurier

1 Nov 2013


Spending this Halloween with my pumpkin



Spending this Halloween with my pumpkin


12 Oct 2013


A woman in a yellow dress uses an umbrella to keep dry in Saint Louis, Missouri, November 1965.Photograph by Bruce Dale, National Geographic

Hey, look! It’s the Morton Salt girl!


A woman in a yellow dress uses an umbrella to keep dry in Saint Louis, Missouri, November 1965.
Photograph by Bruce Dale, National Geographic

Hey, look! It’s the Morton Salt girl!

10 Oct 2013


Hey - Pixies

Play count: 18,221

31 Aug 2013

“'Bring me a story back with you.'
      It was like that kid had been born knowing how to read. He was only in the second grade but he loved to read stories by himself – and he never asked anybody else to read to him. ‘What kind you want this time?’
      ‘Pick out some stories with something to eat in them. I like that one a whole lot about them German kids going out in the forest and coming to this house made out of all different kinds of candy and the witch. I like a story with something to eat in it.’
      ‘I’ll look for one,’ said Mick.
      ‘But I’m getting kinda tired of candy,’ Bubber said. ‘See if you can’t bring me a story with something like a barbecue sandwich in it…’”
The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter by Carson McCullers (via ink-piss)

13 Jun 2013

Fairhaven, Ma complains about wind turbines

Last year, Fairhaven, Massachusetts—the town I grew up in—spent millions of dollars to install two wind turbines, and no one has shut up about it since. Recently, due to numerous complaints, the Fairhaven Board of Health unanimously voted to shut off the evil turbines for twelve hours each day. Here are some of those complaints:

"I heard a rumor that sometimes birds fly into the wind turbines, and the blades chop off the birds’ heads. I think I speak for everyone when I say that I prefer birds with heads. Those turbines need to come down immediately! It’s just common sense." — Ellen G., 34

"So I was out the other morning walking my dog past the wind turbines, and I swear to God I heard one of them whisper something anti-Semitic. Now, I’m not Jewish, and neither is my dog, but I felt deeply offended nonetheless. Imagine if an actual Jewish person were to hear what that turbine said! We need to get rid of the wind turbines for the good of this community." — Francis R., 57

"I can see the turbines from my bedroom window, and I am afraid to undress in their presence. Putting the blinds down and drawing the curtains does not help, because I know the turbines are still out there. I have taken to changing my clothes in the basement, far enough away from the unblinking gaze of the turbines, but it’s dark and cold down there, and I think I saw a rat." — Helen L., 66

"Has anyone else noticed how the turbines hum in the exact same key as "Baby, Hold On," by Eddie Money? I have had that song stuck in my head every day for the past year, and it’s all the turbines’ fault. It’s a good song, but enough is enough." — Dave T., 42

"I lived next to the wind turbines when I was pregnant, and as a result I gave birth to an ugly son. No one stops to coo at him when we go to the grocery store. My relatives have actually sent back his baby picture with a note reading, ‘Thanks, we got the gist.’ Every time I post his pictures on Facebook, someone flags it as ‘offensive material.’ I am seriously considering suing the manufacturers of the wind turbines for ruining my and my son’s lives. How many more ugly babies must be born before Fairhaven takes action?" — Christina F., 29

"My complaint isn’t so much about the wind turbines themselves as it is about the cult that worships them every Tuesday night between the hours of eleven and six. They call themselves Windheads, and once a week they don their propeller caps and march out to the turbines, where they genuflect and chant loudly in Esperanto. After several hours of unbroken chanting, the Windheads stand beneath their twin metal gods and slowly, silently, swing their arms around in circles until the sun come up. To each his own, I usually say, but I think the Windheads have started sacrificing animals during their Tuesday night rituals, because last time I was out by the turbines I noticed a lot of decapitated birds. Chants and foreign languages are one thing, but animal cruelty just crosses the line. Maybe it would be better for everyone (birds included) if we just got rid of the wind turbines." — [Name redacted]

8 May 2013

27 Apr 2013

Play count: 159

22 Apr 2013

The Moon and the Yew Tree, by Sylvia Plath

This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary.
The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue.
The grasses unload their griefs on my feet as if I were God,
Prickling my ankles and murmuring of their humility.
Fumy, spiritous mists inhabit this place
Separated from my house by a row of headstones.
I simply cannot see where there is to get to.

The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right,
White as a knuckle and terribly upset.
It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quiet
With the O-gape of complete despair. I live here.
Twice on Sunday, the bells startle the sky—
Eight great tongues affirming the Resurrection.
At the end, they soberly bong out their names.

The yew tree points up. It has a Gothic shape.
The eyes lift after it and find the moon.
The moon is my mother. She is not sweet like Mary.
Her blue garments unloose small bats and owls.
How I would like to believe in tenderness—
The face of the effigy, gentled by candles,
Bending, on me in particular, its mild eyes.

I have fallen a long way. Clouds are flowering
Blue and mystical over the face of the stars.
Inside the church, the saints will be all blue,
Floating on their delicate feet over the cold pews,
Their hands and faces stiff with holiness.
The moon sees nothing of this. She is bald and wild.
And the message of the yew tree is blackness—blackness and silence.

5 Apr 2013


PHOTO OP: Hey, Kid
Via Jamie Baldanza.


PHOTO OP: Hey, Kid

Via Jamie Baldanza.

5 Apr 2013


I screencapped all of the Infinite Jest references from tonight’s Parks and Rec so you can seem super attentive and well-read around the hypothetical water cooler where anyone has read or cares about David Foster Wallace. So, uh… you’re welcome, MFA students?

Don’t forget the C.T. Tavis Medical Building!


I screencapped all of the Infinite Jest references from tonight’s Parks and Rec so you can seem super attentive and well-read around the hypothetical water cooler where anyone has read or cares about David Foster Wallace. So, uh… you’re welcome, MFA students?

Don’t forget the C.T. Tavis Medical Building!

20 Feb 2013

A 100% totally not fake recap of season 4, episode 1 of Downton Abbey

The allure of motherhood destroyed once she notices her newborn son has inherited his dead father’s distinct lack of a chin, Mary takes up archaeology and sets off on a trip to Egypt in search of King Tut’s tomb. Meanwhile, Edith convinces herself that everyone will finally love her if she’s the one to chronicle the most important historical discovery of the century, so she promises her editor one hell of a story for his paper, and accompanies Mary to the desert.

For weeks Mary deciphers hieroglyphics while Edith fills half her notebook writing “Mrs. Gregson” in various girlish fonts. Tensions rise. The sisters bicker in the shadow of the Sphinx. Finally, Mary and Edith stand before the door to King Tut’s burial chamber. Edith asks Mary if she heard that weird sound. Mary says, “What, did you fart again?”

Then the burial chamber door crumbles, and through the hole staggers the groaning, very pissed off mummy of King Tut. “You woke me up. I’m gonna curse the bejeezus out of you people,” the mummy says, and Mary gives him that “bitch, please” look she spent the better part of her 20s practicing.

"There’s no point cursing us," Mary says, and for the next hour she and Edith take turns rattling off every tragic, shitty event that befell the Crawley family and their servants over the past three seasons, and by the time they finish talking King Tut’s mummy is, like, full-on crying entire buckets of tears.

"You guys, that is some serious, next-level depressing shit you’ve been through," the mummy says. "Nothing I can do could ever compete with that. Forget the curse. I’m going back to sleep forever. Just make sure me and my gold chair end up in a nice museum with air conditioning."

King Tut’s mummy collapses, and Edith starts crying because, with his bandaged, decaying face, he kind of reminded her of P. Gordon, and she never forgives herself for allowing the mummy to revert to an inanimate corpse before she could get his number.

5 Jan 2013

Books I read or almost read in 2012

What I actually read (favorites in bold):

The Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins

If on a Winter’s Night a Traveler - Italo Calvino

I Was Told There’d Be Cake - Sloane Crosley

The Virgin Suicides - Jeffrey Eugenides

Flowers in the Attic - V.C. Andrews

So the Wind Won’t Blow It All Away - Richard Brautigan

I Capture the Castle - Dodie Smith

And Then There Were None - Agatha Christie

Rebecca - Daphne du Maurier

Lives of the Monster Dogs - Kirsten Bakis, the only person in the world who could make a book about dogs with hands tedious

A Certain Slant of Light - Laura Whitcomb

Gone with the Wind - Margaret Mitchell

Who Could That Be at This Hour? - Lemony Snicket

The Book Thief - Markus Zusak

The Love Curse of the Rumbaughs - Jack Gantos

What I started to read but stopped halfway through for one reason or another:

The People of Paper - Salvador Plascencia

Sense and Sensibility - Jane Austen

The Third Policeman - Flan O’Brien

Middlesex - Jeffrey Eugenides

A Tree Grows in Brooklyn - Betty Smith

The Master and Margarita - Mikhail Bulgakov

A Confederacy of Dunces - John Kennedy Toole

10 Dec 2012