le pomme dit du lapin: donne-moi beaucoup des bisoux! j'aime toi j'aime toi, mon petit chouchou!

learn a little french today:
chouchou: a term of endearment (pet, darling, what have you)
lapin: rabbit
pamplemousse: grapefruit
there you go.

i ripped up a canvas in my living room today. found it on the street, this pastel mess of art just thrown out with the empty tuna cans and year-old magazines. i'm thinking of writing or painting on it and putting it up in my room. my little 8 X 10 nook can hold more than i thought, ceiling space included of course.

i think i'm turning into bridget jones. not only have i been wearing a sweater with a ballerina on it for the past few days, but i bought a carton of bryers chocolate ice cream not two days ago and now i'm almost through with it. am i ashamed? ehh. do my pants still fit? i don't know...i wear leggings and dresses, kind of like a prego woman, wahoo. also, another bridget jones tendency that i'm falling into is (no, not granny panties, sorry hugh grant) but falling in love with people on the subway. i swear i think up the most ridiculous monologues in my head as i'm sitting on the F train riding into the city. I'm sitting there, eating my cinnamon raisin bagel, hoping that butter is not all over my hands and face, hoping that i do not in fact look 12 to everybody on the train and hoping that i didn't accidently sit down in some unidentified liquid on the bench in my rush to get a seat on the subway.

also. i just found this. i think i wrote this when i was dozing off a few nights ago. pathetic. i swear i'm becoming more like miss bridget jones every day, and sometimes it's fun to be just that loopy and whimsical. take a gander, and please, laugh.
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ramble 1 (most likely 1am):
Brooklyn boy I think of you often. You and your beard and your barely sipped stella artois. You drink and read and muse the day away. You (oh you philosopher) with a BA in photography. You’re probably gay though. And why do you make me fall in love with you? With your disheveled hair and cabin hat and scraggly beard that is not in the least bit patchy and preteen. You are a man. And you are gay and wearing skinny jeans and air force ones, which by the way, look very stupid on your feet, with the skinny wash jeans tucked into them. I’m telling you. That won’t make me fall in love with you and it’s probably better that way.

ramble 2 (a variation of setting, most likely 1:08am):
Dear subway boy,
Scratching you corner of your mouth and tapping your toes as the car makes us lean this way and that. You have no earbuds, your hands are free, you stare about and scratch your beard and every now and then dart away from looking at your reflection in the window or at the eyes of that man or woman (two seats caddy cornered to the left of you). You grip the metal poles, oily hands smudged with grime from the subway rats of people. You’re reading a yellowed copy of an old book which I lean over your shoulder to try and glimpse what it might be, but you pull your legs in tighter and cough into your scarf and curl even tighter into this little shell that you’ve molded into. What are you? Who are you? Let me see your left hand? are you in love, married, do you have a dog? Is it a bitch dog. I hope it doesn’t wear sweaters, if so this may not work out because I am in love with you. Don’t wear those shoes with the pointy up toe, unless you're going to be a professional who kicks people in the rears. I’m just saying, you look like a bird. I much prefer you in your dad’s old flannel, with your khakis that haven’t been washed for a few weeks and your tattered sweatshirt underneath this pilled wool coat with the scarf that you attempted to knit on top. It’s unraveling, just tuck it in. no one will notice if you act like it’s supposed to be that way. you get that sausage egg cheese bagel and bring it on the train. Come on, Brooklyn boy, don’t you know better? Put it in your man satch and wait until you’re darting through the endless queue of people into the elevator at work that’s three sizes too small. You’re the guy who keeps checking his watch every 7 minutes on the train because it makes you feel like you have everything under control, but you don’t, and it’s ok.

oh, and hey mom and kym and will and all you dear blog readers who make it to the end of my ramblings. i love you for it, you know.