what i miss

sorry in advance this newsletter has a lot of dead women in it

Today would have been Nora Ephron’s 79th birthday. Nora, true Alpha Taurus and inventor of fall, was not shy about sharing her myriad opinions and the things in life that she found pleasurable and the things in life she disdained. (Sound like anyone we know?) Nora was not generally considered a private person — until, of course, she died unexpectedly in 2012 after a long, unpublicized battle with a rare form of leukemia, and we discovered that she was. In small ways, though, she managed to keep her illness a secret while simultaneously turning it, as was her way, into copy.

The final two essays of her last book, I Remember Nothing, aren’t actually essays at all. Rather, they’re lists, one of things she would miss, and one of the things she absolutely would not.

Today’s newsletter — the first in a very long time, I’m sorry! — isn’t really an essay either. Instead, partly inspired by others I’ve seen doing this and Nora, it’s my own spin on that list: things I miss and don’t miss — big and small — about life before all *gestures wildly* this.

nora, if you can hear me wherever you are……bitch, i miss u.

thanks sorry love you bye,

What I miss

Quiet late night subway rides home from being out · Dinners with friends when you say fuck it and go ahead and order that final glass of wine that puts you over into the one-too-many realm · Running in Central Park · Walking around downtown with nothing to do · Being able to go anywhere, whenever I want · Running in general — I don’t know how any of you do it with a mask, I simply cannot · Lucky Strike (RIP), Lupe’s, Little Prince, B Bar, Grey Dog, and every other downtown restaurant I’ve ever frequented · Concerts, but specifically summer concerts at Forest Hills Stadium (I pre-miss them) · My bootcamp class and my favorite elliptical at the gym · The shoes I left under my desk at work · Dressing up · My desk at work (!!??) · Meetings that weren’t Zoom · Stopping at Whole Foods on my way home from work approximately 4 nights a week · The cold bar at Whole Foods (I’m unwell) · Self serve fro-yo places · Going to a just-okay, relatively forgettable but enjoyable nonetheless movie at the Lincoln Square AMC early Saturday afternoons after the gym, whereupon my first meal of the day ends up being candy and movie theater popcorn, because I am Well · Going to the movies after work where my dinner is a glass of wine and movie theater popcorn, because I am Well · Coming over the bridge to Manhattan (okay this one I stole from Nora but oof it HITS) · MY FRIENDS! And being able to see them IN REAL LIFE (double for my older ones, double for the spontaneous hangs) · Hugs

What I don’t miss

Tourists who walk slow · Tourists who walk slow, spread across the entire width of a sidewalk · Tourists who walk slow and stop at random on the sidewalk · Tourists, just, like, in general · Being on the same uptown A as the busker who only ever performs a bad karaoke version “She Will Be Loved” by Maroon 5 at least once a week · It’s showtime! · When the trains inexplicably run 20 minutes apart · When the express runs local after 11 p.m. (wow all of these are getting to be about the subway!) · The Oculus · The sub-zero temperatures and weird airplane-like air pressure of 1WTC · Open office chatter forcing me to travel to different floors and weird nooks to find quiet spaces to work · Sad desk salads from Pret · Leaving my apartment at 6:30 a.m. and coming home around 8 p.m. nearly every day · Going to the gym before work (and thus having to carry my gym bag with me anywhere I go) · Spending $127 a month for the MTA · Spending who knows how much a month on Ubers because the MTA sucks · Feeling like I needed to run or go to the gym every. single. day. · Nights where you have too many things planned across the city that are not easily accessible via subway so you’re doing a lot of running and/or cabbing · Meetings · FOMO


While you’re here, pour one out for queen of queens Gilda Radner, who died this week in 1989. (Actually, on my birthday — although not the same year — which always makes me a little extra sad on top of the usual I’m sad on my birthday bullshit.) Below, the two videos I watch religiously each year. There are plenty of other clips of Gilda that are funnier or more iconic, but something about these two makes me laugh hysterically AND cry at the same time, every. single. time. She was so wonderful and she is so missed.

Honey (Touch Me With My Clothes On) | Gilda Live, 1980
Dancing In The Dark | SNL, 1978


Today I am also choosing to be upset that Madeline Kahn died before she could realize her longtime toyed-with idea of doing a one woman cabaret show called Kahn-cepts.

(oh god i’m sorry this has just turned into the dead funny ladies newsletter but, well, no one is forcing you to read this.)

Anyway. I just wrote a longass profile of Kahn and in doing so, tumbled down a research rabbit hole that reignited my teenage admiration and lady hero-worship. Bitch had the range (literally, as in she was operatically trained, but also, like, the emotional range!!!), and her lovely, nuanced take on “Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered” performed at a 1995 benefit concert is just further bittersweet proof.


ICYMI, I went long on Working Girl (1988) and class politics and New York City and ~belonging~ for Bright Wall/Dark Room


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things to boost your mood in the face of a global pandemic, vol. ii

nary a sourdough starter in sight

hey hi hello. greetings, once again, from my quarantine bunker.

It has been 84 years [*taps earpiece* i’m sorry, i’m getting reports that it’s actually only been 30 days] and the wild ping-ponging between feeling listless and unmotivated to do anything but play solitaire on my phone, scrolling through the Gothamist coronavirus updates, playing a fun game called “is it a sick headache or a regular one? allergies or asthma or the virus?”, and trying to work or write while dealing with a brain that’s like “lol what is this? we don’t know how???” ,,,,,,,,,,, is getting to me.

Things are very bad right now, worse than even I — someone who always, without fail, jumps immediately to the worst case scenario while yelling “parkour!” — thought they would be a few weeks ago when I sent the first list of feel-better distractions.

The people have been asking for more (no) so here we are, back at it again at Krispy Kreme with another (chaotic) list of things that have been pulling me away from my lizard brain for a bit. As always, take what you need and pass it on. (And wash your fucking hands and stay the fuck home — social distancing, as I screamed at a group of teens across the street from me the other day, is not an excuse to skateboard with your buddies — and please save the medical grade face masks for healthcare workers and at-risk people, I mean, fuck, how many times do we have to say it!!!)

woo, felt good to say all that. anyway thanks sorry love you bye,

Some choice films to stream that — and this is key right now — are feel-good type movies impossible to feel bad watching that don’t require a ton of heavy lifting from your brain:

  • Tootsie (a perfect movie) is on Netflix, as is The First Wives Club, along with the hands down best family film (this is a fact, not an opinion) that is actually enjoyable for adults, It Takes Two.

  • Moonstruck (perfect film) is on Amazon Prime, and so is Shampoo, another perfect film. (Can’t believe it was legal for Warren Beatty to be that hot and also that smart.)

  • And………Greta Gerwig’s Little Women is now available to rent or buy on your preferred streaming platform. Because we are all Marmee baking in the middle of the night now.

I have never worked out less in my life but I HAVE been watching a lot of vintage workouts and this one by Debbie Reynolds (in which Shelley Winters goes delightfully rogue) and this “unworkout” by Dixie Carter……… I simply cannot believe either are real.

This hypothetical 30 Rock coronavirus episode is so good I wish they could actually make it.

Patti Lupone’s chaotic tours of her basement on Twitter. Glenn Close’s near-daily uplifting Instagram videos (they are my Xanax). Jane Fonda’s increasingly off-the-rails social media presence. Diane Keaton’s always-left-of-center Instagram becoming even more unhinged. (Really, can’t say I had “Diane Keaton sharing an unboxing video that reveals a TOOTH she lost” on my quarantine bingo card.) Once again, folks, actresses 60+ are doing quarantine content better than literally anyone else right now.

Tiger King memes.

This Fran Lebowitz interview in the New Yorker is, quite simply, everything. (“Let me put it this way: when they compile a list of the heroes of this era, I will not be on it.” — I hope she lives forever.)

This 3-year-old’s daily walk greeting. (Honestly, any cute baby/toddler content. If you have some, send ‘em my way.)

I said nary a sourdough starter in sight but I did NOT say I wouldn’t drop the link to that New Yorker soup recipe.

Every day I watch the opening titles of Working Girl at least once.

I also regularly watch the final scene of Greta Gerwig’s Little Women and weep at how perfect it is and how much I STAN Alexandre Desplat’s “The Book” (and his score as a whole to the extent that, YES, I bought a vinyl copy of it) and how smart I find the “twist” no matter how many times I watch and I will NOT apologize for that!!!

You’re going nowhere, but, fuck it, get dressed. Seriously, dressing up like Diane Keaton for trips outside makes me feel alive again (albeit briefly). As did donning a vintage gown I’ve only worn once just to watch Reds for the second time in 24 hours. (Feel like we’re really devolving here into every sentence I write warranting another alarmed “jesus carrie how old ARE you”) Anyway. Costumes are great. Costumes are transformative. I highly encourage them.

Jenny Lewis has been going live on Instagram at 11:36 pm est many nights to play new songs or just dick around in her kitchen while listening to Serge Gainsbourg’s Aux Armes Et Caetera and it’s like hanging out with a pal!

Criterion Channel released a stylish ‘70s collection featuring What’s Up, Doc?, Shampoo, Klute, and more and it is COMFORTING to have a lot of time machine vibes right now.

Columbo (I’m just going to say that young Peter Falk was lowkey hot and leave that there) is free on Amazon Prime [ Many old men have approached me while I elliptical at the gym to ask if it’s Columbo I am watching on my iPhone,,,,,,,miss them :’( ]

The new Waxahatchee album is a masterpiece and a world to climb inside, and also the new(ish) Soccer Mommy album.

New Phoebe Bridgers! New Phoebe Bridgers!

The new Vulfpeck single, a return to their feel-good old school funk roots.

Carey O’Donnell’s Twitter is a joy, particularly the videos in which he recreates Sex and the City scenes.

Scooter around the house. Honestly, why the fuck not. The simulation is glitching. Do whatever you want. There are no rule anymore.

And, a flash of shameless self promotion: Elaine May’s Ishtar is on Amazon Prime and there is NO better time than now to watch it. (Since this all started, I have convinced four people to do so.) Tonight (Friday, 4/10) I’m hosting a livetweet watch party of it with Bright Wall/Dark Room at midnight est/9 pm pst. Join in; I can promise it will be hilarious and chaotic and a lot of — probably slightly intoxicated — fun.)


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my dms / replies / emails / calls and textses are always open. say hi.

okay that's it that's the end thanks bye

spanish pipedream

blow up ur tv, throw away ur paper

My dad used to play John Prine's "Spanish Pipedream" in the car — especially if we were on backroads on a perfect summer day that warranted eschewing the AC in favor of rolled-down windows — and loudly sing along. He loved the final verse most — We blew up our TV, threw away our paper / Went to the country, built us a home / Had a lot of children, fed ‘em on peaches / They all found Jesus on their own — always singing that one extra loud, extra bad. I’d cover my ears, scream that he wasn’t funny, that he was obnoxious, that it wasn’t fair that he controlled the music, and ask how many times have we heard THAT song because GOD, couldn’t he at least choose something else to antagonize us with? Often, if I protested enough, he’d grin and start the song all over again as soon as it was over. There were few things I fucking hated more.

I think about death all the time, about our inevitable mortality and the panic and dread that it fills me with. Thinking about death is often thinking about the hypothetical, though — about the concept of death and not actual, real life death itself. But in this moment where death seems to be hanging low around us, an impenetrable fog so thick we can reach out and touch it, I feel like all the thinking my brain has done about the inevitable has been for nothing. When John Prine died on Tuesday of complications from COVID-19 first reported last week, I realized that I am vastly unprepared to grieve creative titans like Prine at the scale and velocity I fear this virus will call for. I need a little time to catch my breath. Asking for that feels like a luxury none of us have anymore.

John Prine's catalog is rife with songs about our mortality, yes, but they're not all sad. So many of them, like "Spanish Pipedream”, are songs about making the most of the scant number of days we do get, a winking eye acknowledging that the grand sum of which is unknown, and we burn through them quicker than we think.

It’s funny how you can forget memories until something shakes them loose and they fall out like a dusty book on a high shelf tumbling to the floor when a door slams. I hadn’t thought about those car rides much until today; they feel like an eternity ago. An ironic twist in the plot is that so much of the music I love now was first heard as a little kid in the backseat of my parents' cars, complaining incessantly about how much I couldn’t stand it. The same John Prine I loathed as a child I was supposed to see in concert with Emmylou Harris in Philadelphia this June with my parents. Their tastes have shifted over the years such that we still don’t have a lot of music in common, but when my dad asked if I’d be interested in tickets, I didn’t hesitate to say yes.

I don't know the precise moment at which things turned, when I listened to a John Prine song and thought "oh wait, I GET it." I haven’t listened to “Spanish Pipedream” in years. There are far many more of his songs I love — “Hello In There”, “Jesus, The Missing Years”, “Lake Marie”, “Your Flag Decal Won’t Get You Into Heaven Anymore”, “Clay Pigeons”, “Angel From Montgomery” (I know everyone says that one but there’s a reason — anyone who doesn’t is a monster) to name a few. But today, I’m listening to it on repeat, alone in my room, windows open, singing along.

this one is called things to boost your mood in the face of a global pandemic

it's scary out there!

Greetings from day two of ~officially working from home until April 1~ and the absolute hell that is my anxiety brain flitting between refreshing the New York Times and Twitter every 15 minutes to read more about coronavirus and Amazon dot com to continue to panic order more “provisions” for quarantine even though I have more than enough. (Yes, I absolutely did purchase multiple bags of Twizzlers, they are ESSENTIAL to my sanity.)

Things are very bad right now and I would like for you to know that it’s okay to say that things are very bad. Our healthcare system is on the brink of collapse and no, it is not just like the flu; any sane person should be a little bit concerned right now! The past 48 hours could make up an entire new version of “We Didn’t Start The Fire”, okay? TOM HANKS!? (And, just while we’re here, Chet Hanks.) Keep calm and carry on but wash your hands more, I think the fuck not.

It’s not that I’m so much fearful of getting sick myself (except I do have asthmar, so maybe I am a little) so much as I am stomach-churningly anxious about, to an extreme level, New York City going into apocalyptic movie-style quarantine chaos or, to a more plausible one, my friends getting sick. (I told my therapist covid was making me anxious and she said “You’re young and healthy! You don’t hang out with old people–oh...” the day after I hung out with my 92 year old friend, so I have that going for me.)

Point being: It’s rough out here, and we could all use some distraction, and since we’re all social distancing and can’t really commiserate together, why not find some relief on the internet. Here, a short list of content that always pulls me away from a bad/sad/anxious mood. Take what you need and pass it on, and absolutely chime in with some of your own picks. 

thanks sorry love you bye

This video of Christine McVie and Stevie Nicks (absolutely plastered) trying to film a happy 21st birthday greeting to Warner Brothers

When Harry Met Sally is on Hulu, as is the entirety of The Mary Tyler Moore Show, and The Birdcage (a truly perfect film) is on YouTube for FREE.

Here’s Lily Tomlin and Jane Fonda getting their birth charts read.

Mike Nichols and Elaine May cracking each other up for 4+ minutes forever and ever amen.

This TikTok

I think about Lauren Wilford’s “every woman in a ‘70s movie” every single day.

This 2 year old playing with Animojis….wheezing.

Martin Scorcese talking to his parents about sauce. That’s it, that’s the tweet.

Eve Babitz calling into C-SPAN to describe Joan Didion as “the only sensible person in the whole world in [the ‘70s]” and share that her dinner parties were the first time she ever saw Spode china.

Susan Sontag cooly eviscerating Norman Mailer at Town Bloody Hall. [insert long chilly exhale of a cigarette here]

Laura Dern’s pure episode of Vogue Beauty Secrets (honestly all of the Beauty Secrets series is oddly soothing???)

This bizarre Jeff Goldblum appearance on Pitchfork’s Over/Under

Big Business--->I Zimbra” from Stop Making Sense (a thing you all should know about me is that my phone autocaps I ZIMBRA, so!)

Haim’s Valentine short (I have yet to make it through “Nothing’s Wrong” [starts around ~8:27] without wanting to buy a drum kit)

Here’s a supercut of Jessica Lange saying “Jesus H. Christ” you absolutely LOVE to see it.

Susan Lucci’s Instagram. Candice Bergen’s Instagram. Laura Dern’s Instagram. Honestly, any boomer/middle aged person’s Instagram that falls into the “Mom On The Internet” category brings me great joy. 

This blog post by Jane Fonda about the time she mistook her dead dog’s ashes for bath salts.

Moira Rose’s commercial for fruit wine.

Anywayyyyyy I know there are more but my brain is short-circuiting now. Wash your hands and send some recs!


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this one is called sorry to bother you

if this goes to your spam i stfg

well well well if it isn’t me with some sad boring ass shit yet again!

here i am in your inbox:

here are some thoughts i wrote about TALKING on the PHONE and FRIENDSHIP and just general *gestures broadly* lonely winter blues. wild that i’m dropping this on a sunny 55º day but what can you do ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

there are no media recs because honestly (a) does anyone care and (b) just writing this took me awhile (i recently wrote this long read on 2018’s Book Club (absolutely utilizing a parenthetical inside a parenthetical to say: lol) and also a SCREENPLAY thank you very much) because my brain is a little FRIED but still clings to an idea that i must publicly show productivity on a regular basis lest people think i’m a fraud but that’s for me and my therapist to talk about!!! anyway i DIGRESS. if you want me to recommend music or movies or television or articles or books to you, like, i’m happy to. you know where to find me.

sorry to bother you 

It is the middle of the afternoon on a Tuesday and I am pacing in an empty conference room as I talk on the phone with an old friend, and by old I don’t mean longtime, I mean just that: old. I like her for myriad reasons, among which are that she is bluntly opinionated and she calls everyone “honey” (“baby,” by virtue of comparable youth, mixes its way in, too) and uses words like “delicious” to describe things and experiences and people but never food.

She is having a shitty day and says just that, offering an explanation that begins with the words “I’m sorry” but isn’t an apology; she is simply too old to care enough to offer a faux-cheerful “I’m well! How are you!!!” anymore. I say I always seem to call at the wrong time, when dinner is almost ready or family is visiting or closets are being cleaned, my voice the opposite of her gravelly decisiveness: high and uncertain and apologetic. She insists on staying on the line anyway and she animatedly tells me the details of the disaster I have caught her in the middle of and soon I’m not so nervous after all and we are laughing about the misadventure we had the last time we saw each other and when we hang up I feel a strange sort of emptiness I can’t explain. Like a balloon that had steadily filled during those scant five delightful minutes, I can feel myself suddenly deflating. I just want to float in that carefree conversation a little bit longer. I just want that warmth to burn a little bit more and not leave me so fast. I just want to keep on pretending that I am not in a sad, empty conference room, fluorescent lit and situated high enough above the West Side Highway that traffic below looks not so much real as it does a game, cars small as Hot Wheels, pretending that I am not right back where I was. 


When I was young, I could talk on the phone for hours. Late at night, I would climb up into the small square storage space that sat high in my bedroom wall, cordless landline in hand, and dial my best friend’s number. For the rest of the night, we would talk about everything and nothing until battery began to beep out its death or my mother yelled “What could you be laughing about!? It’s 2 a.m.! People are SLEEPING!” Whichever came first.

I don’t know when I started to wince at the sound of my own disembodied voice, so strange, obnoxious, and grating to my ears. I don’t know when I began to silently beg “don’t pick up, don’t pick up, don’t pick up” as soon as the number I had spent the past twenty minutes working myself up to call began to ring. I don’t know when I felt the intense need to follow up every opening hello immediately with the word sorry.

I am trying to be better. 


It’s a Wednesday afternoon and I am thinking about another friend, the one who always either misses your call entirely and never calls you back or picks up immediately and keeps you on the line for what feels like hours and sometimes actually is. I like these conversations best, like hearing the way she segues, the shifting gears never making themselves known as we coast from current events to why you should stay away from heroin (aside from the obvious reasons, you’ll gain a lot of weight when you finally quit) to ancient Greek philosophy. Sometimes getting a word in is a challenge, but I don’t mind. I imagine myself a sponge, perfectly content to sit and absorb and absorb and absorb to the point of excess. Elaine May once said of Mike Nichols’ films: “I have no idea where they’re gonna go and then when they get there, I go, ‘Oh, well, yeah of course.’” I never know where these meandering calls will take me, and when they finally reach their end, I am exhausted. I am happy, but it doesn’t take long for an inexplicable wistfulness to fill my chest with a dull sort of achy tightness.

It’s not a good feeling but it’s not a bad one either, and at any rate, it certainly is one I miss having. I miss it so much that I don’t realize I miss it until I’m already in the middle of missing it, a small snippet of conversation re-entering my brain at random, on the subway or in a meeting or lying in bed. It has been many months since I have sat with my iPhone pressed tightly to my cheek, jotting down some remark I will want to save for inevitable future bad days, needing to pee yet not daring to even want to end the conversation just yet. It has been some time since the last one of these marathons, and I can’t shake this feeling that lately life is just an Instagram Story on autoplay, flicking from frame to frame and never staying long enough on the good ones.


The thing about phones is that few of us — particularly those of us who belong to a certain generation — are rarely without them anymore. I got my first cell phone at 13, a blue Nokia 6100 barely bigger than the palm of my child size hand. It was for emergencies only, and I had to share it with my two younger sisters. We were not, under any circumstances, allowed to text, lest we wanted to incur the wrath of our father, who would sternly remind us ad nauseum that texting wasn’t in our plan, and our paltry babysitting funds would cover any charges we racked up. It was yet another shared object the three of us would fight viciously over; we couldn’t agree on what case to buy from the accessory stand in the mall, whose activity was demanding enough to get custody for the day, even whose room it would stay in at night. 

As the shared Nokia became a hot pink Razr of my own, then an enV3, and finally version after version of iPhones, its ubiquitous presence has stretched to its limit but I’m not sure if it’s doing me any good. 

Because the other thing about phones is that few of us — particularly those of us who belong to a certain generation — rarely use them to actually make calls anymore. Gradually, then suddenly, the phone became not a lifeline to other people’s voices, but a lifeline to breaking news and group texts, a constant source of likes, comments, shares, and retweets. It became a toy, a sleek glass and aluminum portal to instant gratification, external validation, and existential dread in equal endless measure, all of which I can access whenever I want to. Sometimes even when I don’t. 


I read something once that said there’s no greater comfort for humans than the sound of our own mother’s voice, that it raises our serotonin levels or something. I don’t know, I’m paraphrasing here. The gist of it, though, was specific on the fact that another person’s voice held a seemingly cosmic and almost unfathomable yet actually very scientifically provable ability to make us feel better. The joke, of course, is that when I feel like I am floundering, or when I feel a little bit lonely and a little bit sad — even just a little bit bored — and I know I need the voice of someone else to fill up some space but I am not entirely sure why, one of the last ones I want to hear belongs to my mother. When we are on the same line for longer than five minutes, all I can seem to hear is exhaustion and disappointment, both mine and hers, and though there are times still I go to the proverbial hardware store looking for orange juice, more and more, it has become easier for me to just avoid doing it at all.

You should always pick up the phone when you’re thinking about someone, this I know to be true. But it’s so easy to avoid it, so easy to talk myself out of sitting with the awkward silences I know will dissipate with time and the on-the-spot vulnerability from which there is no place to hide. It’s easy to spiral into the trappings of my own mind, to calculate the frequency with which I contact people with a careful but cool precision, to develop and follow arbitrary rules in an effort to mitigate any risk that the people I love will find me clingy and desperate, a pushy annoyance, and suddenly stop loving me back. It’s much easier to sit and marinate in a loneliness of my own making. And so I let things go unsaid, left to loop endlessly in the liminal space of what ifs.


It’s a Thursday night and my aunt calls me and she sounds drunk — I think she is drunk — and it’s cold and misty out but I’m out walking around anyway. It’s that time of year when I feel a broad but shallow sort of sadness and I don’t know why. I walk for blocks after work in search of some imprecise sense of warmth or maybe just a temporary cure for my boredom, keeping company with my music and wondering how so many things could be going right and I could still feel so stagnant and wrong. The winter has not been as cold as last but it sure feels a lot more muted and grey. 

My aunt says she misses me, says she misses the little girl who would call her crying into her smuggled cell phone, asking her to pick her up on the street corner every time my dad got mad at me and threw me out of the house. I do my best to laugh and say I miss her too and try to push out of my mind that I do not miss that little girl at all. And I can’t help but zone out a little as she talks, my vague sadness now given a reason to turn into actual sadness. I listen to her tell stories and recount memories that she tries to make sound funny but really are not as I watch apartment lights flick on in buildings I walk by, admire the built-in bookshelves in one living room, practically hear the dinner party chatter as it forms in another, imagine the body heat of strangers sitting tight together as I pass by packed bars. It is often too easy for me to envision these people’s lives — who they are, what they do, how they came to find themselves in this West Village townhouse — as well as my own — who would I be if I lived there? Still me or someone different? The joy in dreaming up a fictionalized version of reality is fun until it isn’t, until it just leaves me feeling empty and longing in the cold air, uncertain that these things I have in my dream life will ever be achievable in my real one. For a week after we talk I keep a bottle of wine in my refrigerator but refuse to open it. 


And I don’t really know if there’s a point to any of this other than to say that saying hello first is hard for me but I hate goodbyes even more so if I ring you up sometime, or even if I don’t, please just know that I am very sorry to bother you.


friendly reminder that if you missed any previous emails, you can read the archive here.

if you like getting content and supporting content makers, there’s something around here to click if you look where you can become a paid subscriber and throw some dollars my way

my dms / replies / emails / calls and textses are always open. say hi.

okay that's it that's the end thanks bye

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