this week i

expect snark to reach full potential once a verb.  verbs get a pass on using the word in its own definition.  more sunshine on the 39th parallel


received an unbeveled incense stick, moaned about dust spilt: "like blaming honda for driving the car off the dealership lot and into a brick wall"


inhaled, concentrated, ordered food, continued concentrating, finished concentrating, heard a knock at the door. perfect timing.  it's bad for ya

have you pictured what this planet is going to be like in forty to fifty years? it’s going to be a big smoking ball of shit, a big, smoking, flaming, stinking ball of gaseous shit. that’s what’s going to happen. that’s what’s going to happen. it’s irresponsible to have more than one child. have one. have one child, replacement value for yourself, that’s all. don’t even replace your husband. don’t replace your husband

read junichiro tanizaki's the key.  a mid-fifties husband and mid-forties wife uncork their sexual repressions via journaling

i haven't the faintest desire to penetrate his psychology, beyond the limits i've set for myself

he kept after me to kiss his eyes

as soon as he was gone i took out my diary and examined it.  the scotch tape didn't seem any different, nor, at first glance, did the cover.  but when i looked through a magnifying glass i found two or three faint blemishes-the tape had been peeled off expertly-which couldn't be hidden.  i'd made doubly sure by leaving a toothpick inside, counting the leaves to know where i'd inserted it.  now it was in a different place

you'd expect a man's calligraphy to improve with age

read the rubaiyat of omar khayyam, a drunkard's plea, translated by edward fitzgerald and popularized in the united states not long before prohibition.  a caravanserai of a/a/b/a poetry, a hair perhaps divides the false and true.  tamam