Real bagels are shiny on the outside, and golden. They are good cold, even after toasting. Even after many hours sitting out, sliced open. Real bagels are chewy and don’t taste like loaf bread.
They taste like bagels.
Note to self: do not settle for seedy imposters. And, if you must indulge, eat it while it’s hot.
I saw the sun today! Mystery Google told me to text something dirty to (random long distance phone number). This is what I wrote:
It has been raining for weeks. The leaves have made a slippery pink paper pulp on the sidewalk.
No response. No soul mate. Which is something that I am apparently fishing for. I’ve met enough to know that they exist. Lost enough to know that it doesn’t really matter.
Everybody needs a hobby. Something to dress up for. Something to try for.
Short sentences make me happy.
Happiness is a state of mine.
I had the knee-jerk reaction of getting properly excited for a friend who is succeeding brilliantly at a career she always thought she might want.
That is to say: I am not always a green-eyed monster.
It’s it. This is. Is it. It is. It is this. This is it.It’s it. This is. Is it. It is. It is this. This is it. It’s it. This is. Is it. It is. It is this. This is it. It’s it. This is. Is it. It is. It is this. This is it. It’s it. This is. Is it. It is. It is this. This is it. It’s it. This is. Is it. It is. It is this. This is it. It’s it. This is. Is it. It is. It is this. This is it. It’s it. This is. Is it. It is. It is this. This is it. It’s it. This is. Is it. It is. It is this. This is it. It’s it. This is. Is it. It is. It is this. This is it. It’s it. This is. Is it. It is. It is this. This is it. It’s it. This is. Is it. It is. It is this. This is it. It’s it. This is. Is it. It is. It is this. This is it. It’s it. This is. Is it. It is. It is this. This is it. It’s it. This is. Is it. It is. It is this. This is it.
My brother has moved out here: it’s official. We’ve only had a week but I’m already unsure how often to call, how much we should see each other, how we’ll fit. I’m not in a panic or anything – at the moment I am enjoying some of that calm, that distancing from my emotions that makes everything more amusing than anything else.
It could be the fever.
I bought a faux-fur blanket that looks like a giant wolf pelt. When I’m at home I am always touching it. It makes me excruciatingly happy.
Grandpas are supposed to shop at Peavey Mart, not MEC.
My grandfather would have stoically ignored away the existence of a $700 windbreaker.
I like to help.
Behance find: Iain MacArthur. Illustrator from Swindon who is getting a lot of thumbs up on the Behance network, and for good reason. He combines sensitive pencil portraiture with graffiti design elements in a way that is often rude and always stunning.
It’s not that I like everything he’s got, but I sure am glad he’s giving it to us.

