​Omg hashtag: NotToBeABreederOrNuthin, but that 3-year-old kid who got off the N just now, who was waving and cheerfully shouting: “Bye! Byyyee!” to a bunch of jaded, blank-faced, disinterested old Chinese men, so distracted by the excitement of going and of yalping his farewells, that he walked his goddamned face straight smack into the pole (and then looked startled for a half-second up at the pole, and then looked absolutely delighted for a half-second up at his mother [at, perhaps, his fantastic good fortune for having smacked his tiny face into a pole??], and then began again, as his egress continued: “Byyye!”)?

Well, that kid was fucking cute.

​​And since that’s not enough for a whole blog post, here’s a second FREE BONUS tiny rant:

“… Has anybody ever told you that?” is a really really stupid fucking compliment-part. Because, for one thing, What the fuck are we supposed to REPLY to that? “Yes” sounds sort of conceited and rude (and also like a dare, as though we want you to continue, which: we don’t), but “No” would indicate that either the complimenter must be sadly mistaken and that our legs AREN’T sexy (which is – snort – OBVIOUSLY not true), or else he, the drunk IT guy sitting at the bar drinking Sam Adams and holding a one-sided conversation about ISIS with the oblivious bartender, is indeed the very first person in whole fucking world to have ever paid enough attention to ME, really really the REAL ME and to have looked DEEP WITHIN MY SOUL and told me that I HAVE A PRETTY SMILE, and I WILL NEVER FORGET YOU, DRUNK IT GUY.

Like, fuuuuuuuuck you, dude. What I hear when you say: “… Has anyone ever told you that before?” is: “I bet they haven’t.” It makes me think that maybe you don’t REALLY think that my eyes (which are the notable and oft-coveted shade known by the poets of old as “brown,” and which I guess you must have seen, behind my glasses, from across this dark bar) are actually all that “nice.” It makes me think that you think that I’ve NOT ever heard it before, but that, upon hearing it NOW, from YOU, for the VERY FIRST TIME EVER, that I’m going to be SO GRATEFUL that I’m just going to fall aaaallll over myself in my haste to shove your clammy, flabby little wang in my gob.

(Two – TWO! – different boys on OkCupid have told me, in their opening salvos, that they like my nose. Look, assholes, I LIKE MY NOSE, TOO, but I do NOT like thinking that motherfucking Mystery told you to compliment what YOU think is my least-complimented feature.)

(Well. One of those two boys did tell me that he thought I looked “dangerous.” That was…weird enough that I accept is as a thing he might have actually believed. He might have been genuine there. Unfortunately, he also listed his Meyers-Brigg type in his profile, which is an absolute 100% dealbreaker.)

(Also, goddamnit, men of Brooklyn: YOU’RE NOT A FUCKING INTJ. NO ONE IS A FUCKING INTJ. STOP CLAIMING YOU’RE A FUCKING INTJ.)

Anyway: The answer to “What the fuck are we supposed to reply?” is indeed: “Yes.” Because that’s the answer, and because fuck you.

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I went to the “Beyond the Cube” Rubik’s exhibit at the New Jersey Science Museum last weekend and it was almost as awesome as Ernő Rubik in 1979.  (PLEASE NOTE: NOTHING IS ACTUALLY AS AWESOME AS ERNŐ RUBIK IN 1979.)

I dunno…I want to avoid making this really long and detailed and boring, like my first instinct to make it will be?  (Because there were SO MANY THINGS YOU NEED TO KNOW ABOUT THE NEW JERSEY SCIENCE MUSEUM.) So maybe instead of actually describing everything, here’s just some…bullet points?

(But okay here’s ONE long and rambly thing first, because it was STRIKING and I don’t know how to say it in bullet points: this thing was incredibly fucking well presented.  So, okay, admittedly, I’ve never been to ANY science museum before, and obviously I’ve never been to THIS science museum before, so maybe they’re ALL this rad?  But this was so well-planned and well-thought-out and engaging and blah blah.  The epitome of this is that they had a zillion cubes, just sort of lying around the space, on all the tables and by the front entrance, for you to just pick up and play with while you wandered around, and carry around with you, and use at the different stations, if you were so inclined. No directed instructions. Just: hey! Here’s a cube. Have a cube! If you want!  THIS IS SO SMART.  I’m sure they lost, like, 100 of them, maybe.  

But they sold SO MANY MORE than that in the gift shop.  That was a loss that was WORTH IT. Not to mention that obviously this was heavily supported by Rubik’s, so…it was all a very impressive immersive commercial experience? So. Anywho.)

I brought my own cube with me, OF COURSE.  

HAHA NO NOT THIS ONE THIS ONE IS CHEATY.

My original one – my Rubik’s-brand Rubik’s cube, with the filthy peeling stickers and the one missing orange middle piece, and the horrible sticky slow sliding movement.  Because it’s sentimental!  The person I went with brought his fancy Japanese stickerless Dayan speed cube, which was BUUUUUUULL. I put my cube down on the table next to me at one point while I was playing with one of the wooden pentomino puzzles.  I hadn’t really thought about the fact that there were a zillion random other cubes just laying around all over the place, and that mine might be mistaken for one of those, despite the fact that mine is…let’s say…”well-loved-looking.”  In fact, this only occurred to me at all when I happened to turn my head and notice the seven-year-old girl holding it and testing whether she could actually see inside it to find out how the inner mechanisms worked if she stuck her evil little fingers down inside it and pulled the layers straight out apart from each other, hard.  I…didn’t know how to request that someone else’s young child stop destroying my sentimental object?  So I just sort of gasped and looked away, as though I’d accidentally caught sight of a bloody accident, and shook my two tiny little fists at the sky until she got distracted and dropped it (ARG) and left.  (If she’d taken it with her…I guess I probably would have just lost it forever, so unable was I to kindly butt in and ask her to return it.)

All of the docents were REALLY young.  Not just for this one Rubik’s exhibit, though – across the whole museum.  They were all 14 year old boys.  It was weird and adorable and either a great idea or a terrible one?  The one trying to teach six-year-olds how to program robots was…not great with six-year-olds.  The one guarding the giant American flag made out of cubes, who kept having to re-solve the bottom 3 rows after people messed them up was very patient and down-trodden and sympathetic. The one working the “robot doctor” exhibit downstairs was SO BORED.

The Masterpiece Cube – the “most expensive cube in the world” – was there. It looked exactly like a goddamn grill. It was made by a jeweler whose name I didn’t recognize, from Houston, Texas. I suspect he also makes grills, frankly.

A ROBOT TRIED TO SOLVE MY CUBE, AND FAILED.

(THAT’S MY CUBE HE’S GOT THERE!!!!)

(Or: A robot was offered the opportunity to solve my cube, and turned it down, because my cube was not good enough. Either way.) Oh my god you guys, Denso the Robot. My heart was ALL AFLUTTER when I handed Denso the Robot my cube. I almost didn’t do it. My poor fucking cube…so handicapped already, so wonky, so off-balance and sticky…I was afraid it would be broken by THE MASSIVE STRENGTH OF DENSO THE ROBOT!! But there was this 13 year old boy who kept flirting with me and egging me on until I did it. So. I did. Who am I to turn down flirty 13 year old boys?

[NOTE: Please pretend I was not too lazy to illegally download "Humans Are Dead" and then download a program to allow me to get rid of the audio on the video, where, like, you can hear me giggling shriekingly in ecstatic horror, and you can hear the 13 year old boy flirting, and you can hear some lady sort of disappointedly mocking me at the end there for having gotten totally DENIED by a robot ("Why did it reject your thiiing?"), and instead I would have set the video to "Humans Are Dead," probably starting about about 40 seconds. Perhaps you can just play both videos at the same time, for full and discombobulating effect???]

The rest of the museum was also insane. LETS FIND OUT TOGETHER:

There was goo!

There was a pitch-black maze that you had to navigate by touch alone and it was AMAZING and the person behind me totally touched my boob, totally on accident (probably)!

There was a fake hurricane and I wore a poncho!

I walked on a super-scary too-tall thing! (I look like I’m laughing here. I am actually sobbing from sheer terror. It was NOT FUN or good or exciting. I hated it. Quite a bit.)

There was something called the “Infection Section,” which taught you all about AIDS and Dengue Fever, and featured small children touching things with their filthy clammy little fingers, which was just terribly ironic, and also had a life-size model of a subway train, which showed video of a doctor telling you that you had West Nile Virus and announced: “Next stop: tuberculosis!” just before I said: “Nope!” and disembarked.

THERE WAS THIS THING!!!

They had, like, some kind of crazy mini-zoo?? It was oddly inappropriate and uncool – the tanks and cages were all WAY TOO SMALL and not I felt pretty bad for most of the animals. (Though there was a two-year old baby tortoise named Tortellini who was WONDERFUL and I can only imagine he’s very happy.) They had these tiny little old-man-faced monkeys, and one of them did not have a tail (I learned, from the woman standing next to me, that “cola” means “tail” in Spanish – when she said to me: “No cola!” all super-excited), and THEY WERE SO FUCKING INTRIGUED BY MY GODDAMNED CUBE.

They WATCHED it. They were INTERESTED. They watched it for a LONG TIME. It was FANTASTIC. One of them in PARTICULAR was interested, but I got an audience of up to four at one time. They were CONFUSED, but they WANTED TO KNOW MORE.

[OKAY AND NOTE: Please pretend here that I wasn't too lazy to turn this into a gif where one of the monkeys says, in neon pink text: "You see this fucking thing?" and then the other monkey says, in neon yellow text: "The fuck even is this thing?" It would have been way better that way, I know. But it's like 1:00am, you guys.]

Remember how I was basically super disappointed in the Mutter Museum’s gift shop? This gift shop inspired me to dizzying heights of consumerist desire, but…also, I was basically still totally disappointed and there was so much stuff they SHOULD have had that they didn’t. I wanted to buy the little cube man. I wanted to buy a space helmet. I wanted to buy dino earrings. I wanted to buy that awesome tiny great little wooden puzzle that was like a tetris chessboard thing. I want to buy a secret hidden treasure box version of a cube. I want to buy a custom-made cube with like photos on each side. I wanted to buy an astronaut monkey backpack. I wanted to buy an astronaut penguin in a removable hood helmet.

I did not buy anything.

OMG EDIT, THOUGH: Over the course of the next few days, writing this and fucking around, I figured out what that “awesome tiny great little wooden puzzle like a tetris chessboard thing” was!

It’s a pentomino puzzle! And while I was trying to find it, I found one called a soma cube accidentally first, which was also neat (and I bet was also at the exhibit but I didn’t pay as much attention to it I guess) (and um now that I’m looking at that photo, actually I’m realizing that that other thing right fucking there is indeed a soma cube, so, yeah). (All of the websites about soma cubes are these adorable super-old-school-looking homemade German math nerd sites, for some reason. [Apparently "wurfell" means "puzzle!" I'm learning so many new things. "Wurfell." "Cola." This whole experience has been TERRIBLY educational.] …With a few super-kawaii Pinteresty how-to-make-your-own-for-Father’s-Day!-type sites thrown in for good measure, I guess.) Also this massive 56-piece thing which seems to be just a super-big soma cube? Probably you can still call it that when it’s got this many pieces? I…am totally going to make all of them?? (Whoa. Especially this amazing origami version??) (Maybe I can also make my own “cube for the blind,” since they’re AWESOME and weirdly hard to find for sale? Or make it an art object, semi-unusable: spikes of different colors/sizes/lengths/sharpnesses. That’s not at all unusable, I guess, just…like, careful, or whatever? I could just remove all the stickers from an all-black one to do this? Or just buy a cheap one and paint it all one color before I add the tactile stuff? Omg rad I AM SO EXCITED ABOUT A ZILLION PROJECTS YOU GUYS.)

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OKAY, ASSHOLES [CHRIS].  WHICH ONE OF YOU HILARIOUS MOTHERFUCKERS [CHRIS] FUCKING DID THIS [CHRIS]?

I first noticed it while DRUNK, which was a particularly mean time for someone [CHRIS] to let that happen to me. And I have been wandering around for the last 24 hours or so just FURIOUS and BAFFLED and STUMPED TO THE GILLS.

So thanks a lot [CHRIS], to whichever jokey jokey jokester [CHRIS] is about to get a firm talking-to [CHRIS] about not messing with other people’s things, and not being a big mean jerk head funny guy [UGH, CHRIS].

Well I know nobody actually ever CALLLLLS me or anything, but just in case: If anybody’s trying to get a hold of me, please be aware the my phone will be buried under rice for the next 48 -72 hours or so.

It may have been dropped in a toilet. But then it may have been working TOTALLY FINE and I totally might have thought everything was OKAY!!! Except that maybe much later that night the “back” button might have stopped working, so I put it in rice over night. Except that I might have forgotten to turn it off or unplug the battery or frankly even just remove the back cover before I did that. (Did I mention that the toilet in which it might have been dropped might have been in a bar? It might have been.) And then when I woke up in the morning, the entire screen might have been weirdly dark but also neon pink, at which point I might have finally actually gone online in a panic to see what the fuck I’d done, at which point the internet might have screamed hysterically at me: “OH MY GOD don’t USE it turn it off turn it off turn it off and put it in rice oh my GOD you’re not trying to charge it RIGHT NOW, are you?? Oh my god.”

So. Anyway, whatever might have happened, my phone is definitely underneath some rice right now, and I won’t be able to take your call, so just gchat me, okay?

aww!

At 1:10, the girl with bare shoulders messes up BAD!

Somebody is DEFINITELY getting a force-choking TONIGHT.

I wrote this a million years ago. BUT IT STILL RESONATES TODAY.

Today I bought a $16 bottle of beer. “Well, I guess I’d better save this for when somebody’s around who I want to share it with!” I thought to myself. Then I remembered: “Oh, wait! Why!?” And then I drank it aaaaaaalll by myself!

It was fine.

What the fuck is brett? Why is all the fancy beer suddenly being brewed with it?

I also had a massive fucking rare-ass steak-ass steak. I almost bought a rabbit, too! But it was like $30 and I’d already spent a million dollars on steak and brett-ass beer? And it wasn’t like I had any particular PLANS for the rabbit. I just have sort of vaguely wanted to make rabbit lately, and when I asked the super-nice young excited dude at the meat counter if they had any rabbit and he said yes, I kind of didn’t want to, like, let him down? By not buying it?

Anyway. Beer!

That’s all.

“Certainly many of the immigrants to Park Slope were rather dull. Hitherto, she had accepted their ideals without questioning – their kindly affluence, their inexplosive religion, their dislike of paper bags, orange-peel, and broken bottles. A Radical out and out, she learned to speak with horror of Suburbia. Life, so far as she troubled to conceive it, was a circle of rich, pleasant people, with identical interests and identical foes. In this circle one thought, married, and died. Outside it were poverty and vulgarity, forever trying to enter, just as the Queens smog tries to enter Prospect Park, pouring through the gaps in the northern hills of Bushwick.”

- E. M. Forster (basically)

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I recently had one of the most satisfying relationships I’ve had with a boy in many moons. We read “The Rat Man” together, and discussed it. Well – not so much “together” as “consecutively.” I respect his mind. I appreciate his sense of humor. We had so much in common. And he really gets me, you know? I mean, it wasn’t all roses and unicorns: his handwriting is kind of hard to read sometimes. And I don’t know what his name is.

I bought Freud’s Three Case Histories at the Book Culture on 112th and Broadway back in July or August. (I’m being specific because, yes, I genuinely am kind of throwing this out into the universe, okay? CALL ME, GUY WHO WROTE NOTES IN THIS BOOK.) (I just realized…I also maybe don’t know this person’s gender. Well LOVE KNOWS NO BOUNDS, OKAY??) I think all I’ve ever read before by Freud was Dora, which was wooooonderful. I sure do love/hate this guy! He’s SO FUCKING FUNNY and I think a lot of the time (though not all of the time!) that’s on purpose, and he’s SUCH a jerk and his theories are SO FUCKING WACKADOO and so lovely and pretty and literary and poetic and destructive and offensive and terrible and I feel like a lot of it is really ironic, too, right? Like…Freud be projectin’.

Anyway. This person’s notes (and I just realized that’s going to be annoying to type a million times, so I’m going to come up with a nickname for him [and a gender: male!] instead, and it is going to be the Note Man, so there) seemed to focus mostly on comparing “The Rat Man” to a mystery story, a la Sherlock Holmes.

(Erm…just to be clear: He’s always in pen; I’m always in pencil.)

Book Culture is where people sell back their used textbooks, so presumably he was taking a class. I hope I don’t offend him by assuming that – that his academic pursuits weren’t just for fun.

My own more academic-type notes tended to focus on Frued as narrator/author, and the meta-ish aspects of the thing?

So, you know…we were mostly concentrating on our own interests, but we certainly conversed. We respected and supported each other’s work, and were interested in each other’s ideas, and our interactions strengthened both of us separately. (That last bit up there – my note that talks about “insulting the reader” – that was MY note, but that was HIS underlining of the line I was referencing! *Siiigh.*)

But to be honest…the majority of my notes were things like “Ha ha, you dick, Freud,” and “Ha! What?!” and “Arg, dick,” and “Ha.”

Making fun of Freud was where we found our truest connection.

Page 47 was when I…fell in love.

“Ha,” indeed, Note Man.

Note Man thought that Freud was a dick, too! He thought he was ridiculous, too! WE HAD SO MUCH IN COMMON! (Those caps below in pen are his, not mine…we were even taking on each other’s handwriting habits!!) (And in that bottom photo, the underline was his, but the heart was mine.)

Which is not to say that we did not have our disagreements, of course:

Anyway. Eventually, it had to end. A brief summer romance was all we were fated to have. He apparently didn’t read the other two case histories in the book. I was left alone suddenly, left to fend for myself with the Wolf Man and the charming, fanciful, hilarious, creative, brilliant, psychotic Doctor Schreber. (Doctor Schreber may have been my rebound guy after the Note Man, I admit.)

Perhaps this is the way it was meant to be. Perhaps all the best love stories must, in order to be classified as such, end. Perhaps it is the grand finale which we always most desire, for, though we know it be the end of our beautiful journey, our deep human need to see it through to the final expression must be satisfied. Or, as the Rat Man himself so eloquently put it: “She had abscesses on her buttocks which she was in the habit of expressing at night. I used to wait eagerly for that moment, to appease my curiosity.”

Wouldn’t we all, though? Wouldn’t we all?

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You guyz, Philadelphia is basically the WEIRDEST. Or at least, those were the places I went to when I went there just now.

You know what the best thing about travelling alone is? (Not: What is the best thing about THIS PARTICULAR trip travelling alone, because the answer to that is SCRAPPLE OMG, but just, like, in general.) It’s getting to do whatever the fuck you fucking want. You know what I DIDN’T do while I was in Philadelphia? I DIDN’T tour Independence Hall, or see where Benjamin Franklin was buried, or go to the Freedom Center. (I did see the Liberty Bell, but only accidentally: I was caught in the rain at one point while on my way between two other, far cooler, tourist attractions and happened to realize, as I was standing near a window under an overhang trying to protect every goddamn piece of electronic equipment I own in my stupid purse, that the Liberty Bell was in the room behind me. I took this picture:

And then 16 pictures of this mouse that I saw in the Liberty Bell room:

YES THAT’S RIGHT: YOUR SYMBOL OF PRECIOUS AMERICAN FREEDOM IS HOME TO VERMIN, PEOPLE. VERMINNNNN!!!)

But you know what I saw instead of those things? I saw Edgar Allen Poe’s scary-ass cellar, and I saw not one, but FOUR ovarian cysts bigger than my torso, and I saw a really, really shitty ghost tour, and I saw a very pretty green beetle, and I saw Charles Dickens’s stuffed pet raven Grip, and well yes fiiiiiiine, I also stood where JFK stood – so I DID do something patriotic-ish. (And actually I also stood where Lincoln stood, though I hadn’t realized THAT plaque was even there – a bemused security guard had to point it out to me – and somehow that one seemed less funny. Though honestly, I’m not sure WHY. I’m maybe not sure why the first one IS funny? But it IS, though, right?)

(Right?)

I also ate something called “scrapple,” you guys.

I LOVE SCRAPPLE SO MUCH, YOU GUYS.

I need a t-shirt that says that. I need a tiny plastic scrapple keychain. I need to send scrapple postcards to all of my loved ones. (My list of loved ones now includes “scrapple.”) I love scrapple so much I’m going to marry it. If world peace was a chopped-and-seasoned-and-deep-fried pork dish, then world peace would be scrapple. (Maybe world peace already IS scrapple.) I guess I’m going to convert to Quakerism now, because scrapple is a Quaker dish, and THEY OBVIOUSLY KNOW WHAT’S UP. I go where the scrapple goes. I am scrapple and scrapple is me. Where scrapple goes I will go, and where scrapple lodges I will lodge. Scrapple’s people shall be my people, and scrapple’s God my God. Where scrapple dies I will die, and there will I be buried. May the LORD do so to me and more also if anything but death parts me from scrapple. I even love the WORD scrapple, and that’s not a hilarious joke: that’s true. All of this is true, though. I really, really, really love scrapple. Look at its shape! It’s got some kind of idealized golden ratio thing going on, right? It’s like this perfectly constructed, solid-but-graceful FORM, in the very strictest most artistic or philosophical possible definition of the word “form.” It is a buildable, trustworthy object, and yet…light. Lovely. Sexy? It is clean and NEAT and oh my god you guys have you ever TASTED scrapple? Scrapple tastes like…well, frankly, scrapple tastes like chopped-and-seasoned-and-deep-fried pork, so. There’s that. That’s scrapple. Scrapple, man.

(Scrapple is that gorgeous thing on the left there. The massive pile on the right was chipped cream beef. That’s right. I ordered chipped creamed beef WITH A SIDE OF SCRAPPLE. Because: vacation.)

Anyway, I drew some stuff while I was in Philadelphia. Here’s some of it! (Eh…I guess it’s kind of tiny, but if you fuck around with it and click on it and stuff I think it’ll get bigger. Because it’s NECESSARY TO SEE ALL THE DETAILS OF MY NOTES ON SCRAPPLE.)

Oh man. Scrapple.

While I was also there, that first morning at Reading Market, I saw this stuff called suelze and desperately wanted to try it.

But I was already full of SO MUCH SCRAPPLE and I wanted to get to the Mutter, so I put it off. I promised myself I would go back the next day and try it! (This, incidentally, is ALSO the kind of thing you would somehow never actually manage to get around to, were you travelling with another person. WILL I MANAGE IT, THOUGH??? STAY TUNED TO FIND OUT!) (Hint: I do. But it comes later in my little cartoon book, so hold on a second is all.)

Anyway, obviously the main reason for the trip to Philadelphia was the Mutter Museum, because, hi, my name is Jessica and I like things like human skulls presented in fake-intellectual nerdy ways that are also kind of Pinteresty:

The only thing that disappointed me about the Mutter museum was the gift shop. There were SO MANY THINGS in that damn museum I wanted to own a little plastic key chain versions of, or at a least postcard photo of! (Especially since no photography was allowed!) They were definitely doing that giftshop wrong. I bought a book there. That’s all. (And it’s…fine.) I would have given you so much fucking money, Mutter! All I wanted was a postcard of those two Best Friends of the Floating Heart dudes, and a children’s wooden shapes puzzle of the tiny exploded bones of unborn fetuses on black velvet, and a little tiny collapsible wooden toy model of the single-headed-double-bodied baby skeleton (You know what I’m talking about. Like…one of these, you know?), and maybe a choice between a whole bunch of piggy banks that are modeled after a bunch of the different skulls, and fuck I mean come on: how about actually a necklace modeled after that string of papilloma, and obviously this would be wildly disrespectful and you should NOT do this, but…come on, man. Why on EARTH weren’t you selling bars of soap shaped like the soap lady? That’s just common sense, yo. And I am totally going to fucking LEARN CARPENTRY in order to make myself a goddamned little wooden jewelry box – slash – Civil-War-era field doctor’s surgery kit, I wanted one so bad. And…I obviously don’t have a photo of it. It looked sort of like one of these? It was badass.

Incidentally, that thing about how I photographed roughly every single cell in the prison? It’s…kind of true. Here’s a nearly-five-minute-long slideshow of a mere fifty of the eight hundred seventy-two thousand photos I took of nearly-identical prison cells:

This is another reason it’s good to go on vacation alone. So that you can do shit like THAT and not have to feel like you’re putting anybody out. (Also: so you can read EVERY SINGLE ID CARD below each skull in the collection of 300, and write down the good quotes from half of them or so.) (Also: so you can walk into the coffee shop / lending library / tattoo parlor at 10am on a weekday and very sincerely think to yourself: “Huh…what if I get a tattoo here?” The tattooist was already with somebody else, though.) (Also: so you can walk 10 blocks out of your way – TWICE, since it rained the first time – and wait in a security-check line, and get teased by a security guard, just to stand where JFK stood.) (Though: it DOES mean that you have to wait for 5 minutes before some other random stranger/tourist happens to walk into Poe’s cellar in order to be brave enough to go over to the “creepy part” to take a picture, because it was TOO FUCKING SCARY to do it when you were in there all alone.) I really only STOPPED taking photos because my camera’s battery died. (And then I took a bunch on my phone, too.) I very sincerely believe that that prison was the most physically beautiful place I’ve ever been in my entire life. (Yeah, fuck you, every national park I’ve ever been to; fuck you, St Paul’s Cathedral; fuck you, the Lourve; fuck you, Bahama Islands; fuck you, Podatso National Park. I said it. You heard me.) (Also, it occurs to me that I have not been to enough fancy places. I need to go on more vacations, yo.)

And if anybody does know (or even have any good ideas about how to find out?) the name of the person who…set-designed or art-directed or curated or assembled or whatever…all those rooms: fill a girl in. I am SO FUCKING CURIOUS.

Also, maybe the thing that I will learn carpentry in order to build will be more of a turn-of-the-century-era creepy peeling sorting box of unidentified purpose to hang on a wall?

And you know, to be honest, I KNOW that part of the reason I loved that goddamn place so much was just because everything was painted in that really wonderful Pinterest-y 1960s-kitchen stand-mixer pastel-mint-green-y color.

Yayyyy! Told ya!

It was…not…awful. It was beautiful. It looked like stained glass windows, or Czec glass jewelry, or…other pretty, colorful, see-through type things? (And I totally think the handsome dude who gave it to me was flirting with me.)

Also, here’s that beetle I mentioned earlier, too. Just to…you know. Not keep you hanging and all.

So. You know. Philadelphia and all.

Woot or whatever.

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Come Along With Me, by Shirley Jackson

Man, Digby ALWAYS loves sitting on Shirley Jackson. The title story was…I mean, not great, but it was unfinished in multiple ways, I think (literally no ending, but also…unpolished-seeming), so it gets some slack. The other stories were pretty rad to sit on, though.

…Um. I don’t know what this is, actually. Digby seems to be having a pleasant sit on it, though, so that’s nice.

Fearful Symmetries, edited by Ellen Datlow

Digby enjoyed sitting on this book quite a lot. There was only one story in that was really terrible – but it was NOTICEABLY terrible. It was SO terrible that it was just confusing. Why was it THERE? What had HAPPENED?? It was mostly pretty solid. You know. A totally decent book upon which to sit.

First Love, Last Rites, by Ian McEwan

Always a fan of sitting on McEwan, Digby was excited to sit on this, his first book of short stories. They really DID read like a first book, too: very good, but very crafted. Like, he was WRITING when he wrote these. And the styles, though always noticeably McEwan-ish, are, even so, just wildly all over the place. He’s got a Faulkner story in there, he’s got a sci-fi in there, he’s got some goofy fucking Tom Wolfe or some shit in there? I dunno. But of course somehow they all still manage to mostly just be about middle-aged white British dudes thinking really hard about their penises and murdering ladies.

Though you know what else? How come all of his fucking books sort of look/sound like goddamn period-piece romance novels? I mean, that title: First Love, Last Rites. And look at the cover (when not covered with a cat)!

It looks like some earnest teenage romance. And he does this a LOT. Fucking Enduring Love? On Chesil Beach? Sweet Tooth? Ugh. Come on, dude. For a bunch of books about, like, murder and madness and British penises and accidentally ejaculating on ladies thereby DESTROYING BOTH OF YOUR LIVES FOREVER, those sure are some pretty-pretty titles. And covers. It makes it kind of embarrassing to do that super-casual “silently wave the cover at them” thing in answer to somebody asking you what book you’re reading.

Well. You know. If you’re the kind of person who cares about how people judge you based on your reading habits.

Anyway, a pretty decent book to sit on, overall.

…Fucking Erwin, though, man. He is THAT GUY at the book club. (Look how annoyed she is in that second photo omg come on.)

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