mm hmmm.

I have had an extremely successful day today!

The last couple weeks have been suuuuuper busy at work, especially the last two days. So today, I decided to sleep in a little: I set my alarm for 9:30. At 9:30, I woke up, had some grape juice, and read a little from The Hot Zone (which yes it is a good idea for me to have checked out The Hot Zone from the library, mmhm).

Then I took a nap!

When I woke up from my nap, I had a few mini Snickers, then fell asleep.

After a while, I woke up, ate some of the leftover sandwiches that I brought home from the conference yesterday, had a mini Snickers, and then fell asleep reading The Hot Zone.

Then, later on, I woke up and made a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich, before deciding to take a brief nap.

Later that afternoon, I woke up briefly to pee.

After another nap, I made myself a grilled cheese sandwich (with the crusts cut off!) and ate it. I also opened a beer!

Then I fell asleep. When I woke up, I ate a couple mini Snickers and the crusts from my sandwich, and drank my beer.

Maybe later this evening, I will take a nap.


Pictured here: Sandwich, Bed, Co-Napper.



Look, I know this is kind of a lazy post. But it’s just that MY CAT SITS ON SO MANY BOOKS, you guys. And it’s basically never not worth sharing.

So. Welcome back to Digby’s Book Club!! (“A Zillion Photos” edition!)

Ugh, Kate Millett. UGH.

(Also this book TOOOOTALLY makes me act like an asshole to dudes who try to take up more space than they should be allotted on the subway, which is its only redeeming quality, quite frankly. This books makes me a fucking ASSHOLE. A fucking asshole who power poses like Wonder Woman and consists of about 74% elbows [and 26% scowls] and takes NOOO SHIT from some fucking dudes who let’s face it probably also tortured a 16 year old to death in a basement once in 1965 in Indiana.)

Also, Digby didn’t like sitting on it, either.

And fucking Summer House with Swimming Pool was so vaguely disappointing that Digby didn’t even deign to sit on it, only NEXT to it.

Room with a View, though, was fucking BALL-OUT FANTASTIC, and makes up for two other shittier books Digby sat on first.

This might also be Room with a View?* I’m not totally sure.**

Look, Digby’s kind of fucking fat, right? She takes up a lot of book, is what I’m saying. And sometimes it’s hard to remember what book it was that she was sitting on, when you can’t actually read the title there, you know?

Like, for instance, I’m not POSITIVE that this is One More Thing, by B J Novak. But oh hey speaking of One More Thing, by B J Novak! That book was…fine? But man, I fucking HATED reading it. That asshole’s smirky little author photo, with his Harvard education and his book deal and his being a fancy actor and his being rich probably and his stealing my boyfriend and his telling me that he bets lots of boys LIKE fat girls like me and his easy way with children and wild animals and his perfect size-six foot and his extensive knowledge of fancy scotch and his twelve trophies for Best Costume Ever on Halloween and Stuff (1991, 92, 93, 97, 98, 99, 01, 02, 03, 04, 05, 06, and then he didn’t stop entering, but he started giving his trophies away to the no-kill animal shelter, but, like, not because he’s afraid of the number thirteen or anything – just because he’s super-generous is all).

Digby didn’t mind sitting on it, though. (If that’s what this is.)

This is DEFINITELY Tales of the Unexpected, by Roald Dahl. (Which was great, obviously.)

This…might also be?

This is Full Dark, No Stars! It’s recognizable!

This is Full Dark, No Stars with a jerk in front of it!


* Also, you know what? That’s totally not Room with a View. It’s way too thick, right? I have no idea what that book was.

** (Also, I would like to point out that that’s definitely not my nipple; that shirt is just wrinkled funny. THIS PICTURE IS NOT DIRTY, she said, while drawing attention to the place where her nipple is, though you DEFINITELY CANNOT SEE IT, and I know that sounds sarcastic or something but I swear it’s not, that bra just has a weird thing on it!!!)

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​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.)


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


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.  


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.



(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.


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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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?


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)


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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