5/25

shorts, even though i don't really like any of the ones i have and need to get some new ones

putting my work computer in my closet under piles of clothes to shame myself from trying to use it

that miso doesn't bark at my bass anymore, which means i can play it in the living room

her smell, which is too long and incredibly indulgent, but which i loved very much for those faults, the most fellini-esque movie i've seen in a while, such careening tonal shifts, the biggest canvas elisabeth moss has ever gotten to action paint

jia tolentino's essay about chopped and screwed and the varieties of ecstatic experience in this week's new yorker

that d doesn't make me feel bad about not going into the farmer's market with her, and that miso and i can walk around downtown while she goes, away from the crowds

the farmer's market, even though i find it unpleasant and too crowded, and for how happy it makes d when they have flowers she likes, and for the strawberries she has bought the last two weekends

taking long walks down quiet paths, to savor the last empty summer that we'll live in this college town, how long miso's tongue gets when she is happily tired