Clown Smoking a Cigarette (2021)

Editor's Note: This is a completely uncensored, unhinged look at where I'm at right now. I just finished Fake Accounts which, despite not liking it, inspired me to write about my life in a style similar to Oyler's candid dissatisfaction. I am okay, I promise.

Earlier this week, while scrolling Instagram, I saw a painting of a clown smoking a cigarette. Me, I thought, because I am incapable of thinking in full sentences and also because I am narcissistic enough to project myself into something asvequally sophisticated and removed (temporally and spiritually) as a 1914 Edward Hopper painting. Me, I thought, because it is not uncommon in 2021 to use "clown" as an insult or at least insult-adjacent. Urban dictionary: just a downright fool, someone who there's no other word for other than 'clown'...it explains how stupid they can be and how little you think about them. Okay, so maybe not me in that sense, but me in the sense that I frequently have no idea what I'm doing and subsequently have no idea what to think about my aforementioned lack of knowledge re: my own life and opinions. Also, the clown looks really sad. Or maybe I'm reading too much into it, but there's something soul-crushing about smoking in costume, right? Like, remember that time Barney-out-of-costume was caught smoking a cigarette, causing a subsection of parents who subscribed to FamilyFun magazine to create a petition demanding the actor be sent to Guantanamo Bay (I made that last part up, obviously)? I remember feeling sad for Barney, my kid brain unable to assign that sadness to a subconscious shame associated with doing something very adult (smoking) in the context of something very childish (a literal children's TV show). Anyway, let's not get into it because I think he turned out to be a sexual predator.

I started a job as a part-time bookseller. I spent the four-hour training learning how to use the register, look for books, restock shelves, etc. At times I felt useful, like when a woman asked for a copy of On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous and I immediately knew where to find it because I'm gay and also semi well-read. Other times, I felt like a clown smoking a cigarette, particularly when a woman demanded a refund after checking Amazon and learning she could have bought the same book for $10 less. I had no idea what to say. Like, no shit lady, have you been in a coma for the past ten years? Do you have no concept of what Amazon is doing to small businesses and community-oriented institutions? And that's not even addressing the global implications of increased optimization, corporate-funded politics, the accumulation of capital amongst a very small percentage of the world's population, etc. "The world sucks," I wanted to scream, "Why do you think I'm working here, dealing with your bullshit when I recently graduated from a top-tier university?" And then I realized: oh wait, I'm also an asshole. Why do I feel entitled to a certain type of life? Why do I feel embarrassed about the fact that I work a retail job? I'm not better or worse than someone else because of what I do (or, more importantly, what I don't do). 

Here's the problem: I have no idea what I'm doing. I'm literally a clown, fumbling in the dark, trying to find a light switch. Even if that light switch illuminated a small portion of the room I'm in, a dusty corner, for example, at least I'd have a point of orientation. Right now I just feel lost in every aspect of my life. I don't feel confident in my ideas. I'm lonely. I feel sad all of the time and I don't know why. Sometimes the future feels untenable, a black hole where all our possible realities converge into nothingness, a mass accumulation of climate disaster and right-wing politics and capitalist over-reach. Other times I wake up and feel invigorated by this same maplesness, encouraged by the future's potential for reinvention. But this excitement, similar to the excitement of telling a person off for buying her books on Amazon, seems displaced and entirely selfish. In the future of my own making, I think only of myself. I am working in publishing as an editorial assistant, commuting to work from my small but well-curated studio apartment in Brooklyn. I carry a tote bag on the subway and smoke joints on a fire escape. I reunite with my ex-boyfriend, also living in New York, who is impressed with how much I've changed, how intelligent and self-assured I've become. I tell him about the bad times, times when touching my hand to a burning saucepan or letting go of the steering wheel while driving along a particularly curvy part of the road felt more real, no longer ghastly figments of my imagination but the real thing, a Paranormal Activity-type ghost that might actually make me burn my hand or drive off the side of the road. Wow, the ex-boyfriend would say, amazed at my ability to persevere, to make it from there to here. But "here" is nowhere because, as I mentioned, this is all a perverse fantasy of the future, one completely devoid of the political realities of the 21st-century. As I take the train from Brooklyn to Manhattan, am I worried about the continuous erosion of the coral reefs in the Pacific? Am I happy, working this fake job? Is anyone happy? I wonder if my ex-boyfriend is happy. This entire post is, after all, about him. Or maybe not, I can't be sure. Like I said, I really don't know what's going on anymore. I'm completely lost. 

Please, where's the light switch? 

Taylor Swift ft. HAIM

 Ladies, gentlemen, and non-binaries of this blog, I present to you the dichotomy of my literary interests: The Guest List by Lucy Foley AND Minor Feelings: An Asian American Reckoning by Cathy Park Hong. Sometimes I want to read about a wedding-based murder, and sometimes I want to educate myself on the complexities of identity formation within the United States. Unfortunately, I have not been able to find a book that does both! I started the week with Minor Feelings because Asian Americans are facing a surge in hate crimes that began last year when D_____ T____ weaponized race as a means of implicating blame for the covid-19 pandemic. Piece of shit. Anyway, the underlying violence and racism of this country did not go away when we (seemingly) took out the trash on November 3rd, and the vitriol towards Asian Americans is a constant reminder that this country is rotting from the inside out. We need to do something. We need to be allies and protestors and safe-havens and agitators and dismantlers. We need to say "fuck you" to an institution that is inherently racist, an institution that continues to insist there is nothing wrong precisely because it, no we, are unable to face the shame of the past. We need to do better, period. 

CUT TO: Tuesday, March 30th. I'm sitting on the couch, watching 13 Going on 30 when I get a news alert that a district about 2.5 hours away from where I live is offering mass vaccinations to anyone 16 and up. And I, famously, am 16 and up, so I pause the movie (right before Judy Greer goes rogue, steals Jennifer Garner's spread, and defects to a rival teen magazine), download The Guest List on Audible, and get in my car. And I'm off, speeding through the suburban hellscapes of Maryland, listening to a collection of English and Irish actors as they do their best to make The Guest List as camp as possible.  

CUT TO: Tuesday, March 30th. Later in the day. I'm sitting in the Starbucks drive-thru, officially a Pfizer girl. My left arm is a little sore and I'm feeling weirdly blase about the whole thing, like I've just driven 2.5 hours for something as innocuous as a physical. I've paused The Guest List so I can order a grande peach green tea. I'm about halfway through the book and there's no body,only the suggestion of violence. I want a body, and I want it NOW. 

CUT TO: Tuesday, March 30th. Back home. I'm nearly done with The Guest List, and guess what? STILL NO BODY. Alexa, play "No Body, No Crimes" by Taylor Swift ft. HAIM. Alexa, please send a direct message to the estate of Agatha Christie, apologizing for any and all comparisons made between The Guest List and And Then There Were None. I get it, there are a lot of similarities between the two books: a secluded setting, a collection of shady characters, all of them possessing motive to kill, a bad storm, bubbling tension among guests, etc. But Agatha Christie's novel has one thing that Lucy Foley's does not— a body count. The Guest List is a whodunnit with an added layer of being a "whodunwhat", as in who did it and also WHAT did they do? There's literally not a dead body until about 260 pages into the novel, and that just doesn't cut it for me. If I'm reading a thriller I want to be thrilled, not mildly amused by a collection of straight people making fools out of themselves at a chic wedding off the Irish coast. Okay, maybe I was thrilled by a collection of straight people making fools out of themselves at a chic wedding off the Irish Coast, but seriously NO BODY, NO CRIME, NO GOOD REVIEW. 

CUT TO: Wednesday, March 31st. I'm returning from the bookstore with a physical copy of The Guest List because I have a disease, and that disease is needing a physical copy of any book I've consumed. I finish the book and immediately call 911 to request emergency transport to the nearest hospital. I am experiencing literary whiplash. I just spent the last 50 pages of the book being thrown from one POV to the other, some lasting only a few paragraphs, all the while completely losing interest in who killed who and why because, let's be honest, they were all kind of annoying. The dispatcher denies my request for helicopter transport, so instead, I nurse my wounds by drafting a witty, bone-cutting review of a book that I managed to finish in two days. Okay, so maybe The Guest List isn't all that bad...

After finishing The Guest List, diving back into Minor Feelings felt hard, like training for a marathon by running in place for a few seconds before you get bored. Hong's collection of essays, which isn't really a collection of essays but a hybridized memoir/cultural criticism that takes the form of many smaller, more compact narratives, addresses complicated issues of identity and intersectionality, often drawing from both personal and theoretical frameworks to crack open the Asian American consciousness as wide as possible. At times I did not understand what I was reading, so I'd go back and read and re-read again until the ideas within the prose began to take shape in my mind. Other times, I would finish an essay, "Portrait of an Artist", for example, and feel like the point was more nebulous, something I gained simply from reading her work and acknowledging the complexities of thought. Hong is a trained poet, so it's not surprising that her writing is constantly flawless and occasionally impenetrable. But again, it is not always the point to penetrate beyond the words, but to appreciate the beauty of her syntax and find meaning where you can, humanity where you cannot. I will think about this book for a very long time. 

If you're interested, New York Magazine has a great article that lists 68 different ways you can show support towards Asian American communities in the US. Link: https://nymag.com/strategist/article/where-to-donate-to-help-asian-communities-2021.html. 

xoxoxoxo, 

swiftie out! 

#StopAsianHate

march madness? mama, you don't know the half of it!

This is not a post about basketball. That would be insane. Even more insane is the amount of time it took for me to come up with a title for this post. I was playing with an Ides of March pun but I actually don't know what the Ides of March is besides a movie with Ryan Gosling and George Clooney. Also, nothing really rhymes with "Ides" that would make the joke even semi-legible, therefore I resorted to the tried and true comedic method of juxtaposing unlike things (sports and saying the word "mama" unironically) and hoping for the best. Anyway, it's still March and I am going mad. Yesterday, I went to Dunkin' Donuts (I will not address it as solely Dunkin' because ew) to reward myself for waking up before 10 a.m., and when the woman behind the counter asked me what I wanted I looked her dead in the eyes and said: "Hi, I would like a dozen donuts please." WTF! I swear to God I was body-snatched or something because I have no rational explanation for why I walked up into that Dunkin' Donuts and asked for twelve (12!!!) donuts knowing full well the shelf-life of a DD donut is twelve hours AT BEST. I mean seriously, the minute one of those donuts is exposed to sunlight it immediately decays like it's the damn star of Avengers: Infinity War and Thanos has just snapped his bejeweled-ass glove! So here I am, four donuts deep, about to write about the three books I read to end out the month of March. Let's begin...

*not this photo quality, honey....

The Three Stigmata of Palmer Eldritch by Philip K. Dick 

Okay, let's address the elephant in the room...PKD was not a good person. He is a member of the small but elite group of white male writers who, um, TRIED TO MURDER THEIR WIVES. Like, we can't forget that Norman Mailer literally stabbed his wife with a pen-knife (not once but twice), nearly taking her life. And then of course there's William S. Burroughs who actually did murder his wife when he literally shot. her. in. the. face. So yeah, based on Wikipedia, PKD was giving off the same toxic energy in 1963 when he attempted to push Anne Williams Rubinstein, his wife at the time, off a cliff! Later, he claimed she was trying to kill him and literally had her institutionalized, not knowing that 50+ years later the Chicks would release "Gaslighter" and absolutely come for his neck. 

All this to say that I actually really liked this book (lol). As someone whose childhood was all things Harry Potter, I'm still trying to figure out where the author ends and the book begins, and how much of this we should take into account when reading. There's some guy named Roland Barthes who argues against the method of literary criticism based on an author's identity or politics, instead citing the importance of a close reading of a text that's been liberated from tyrannical structures of meaning-making. Ultimately, a text is an object with multiple layers of meaning that, once sent out into the world, becomes independent of the person who created it. I mean that's cool and all, but Rolan Barthes died before he could witness a beloved author completely decimate her writing career in 140 characters or less. It's complicated and I'm dumb, so let's leave it at this: I'm learning to really like science fiction and, as it happens, Philip K. Dick writes really good sci-fi. 

So, The Three Stigmata of Palmer Eldritch takes place on a version of Earth that's been ravaged by climate change, forcing an uber-powerful United Nations to "draft" citizens into becoming colonists on Mars which is all well and good except, um, it's Mars and there's literally nothing fun to do. Like, apparently in the future there's no civic planning, no desire to build a strip mall on the moon, etc. Due to the bleakness of Mars living, many colonists have turned towards Can-D, a hallucinogenic drug that transports the user into the world of Perky Pat, the sci-fi equivalent of Barbie. At the center of the novel, of course, is a large corporation that supplies both Perky Pat's layout (basically Barbie's Dream House that facilitates the Can-D hallucinogenic trip) AND the drug itself. But when Palmer Eldritch, an Elon Musk-adjacent character, returns from a distant star system and introduces Chew-Z, a new, more potent drug, the real fun begins. And by "real fun" I mean absolutely bonkers plotlines that'll make you feel like you just took a huge hit of acid before going to the planetarium. If you're expecting typical sci-fi fare, think again. This book is way more interested in asking big, pseudo-spiritual questions about the nature of reality, the existence of God, etc., often at the expense of character depth or meaningful dialogue. Still, I thought a lot about this book even after I had finished it, and that's saying something because I don't do a lot of critical thinking these days.  

The Life of the Mind by Christine Smallwood 

I'm kinda obsessed with this book and the absolute audacity it has to distill what's terrible about 21st century living into a slim, 229-paged novel. This book needs a warning label on the cover that says "DO NOT READ THIS IF YOU FEEL LIKE THE PLANET IS ONE BIG BALL OF TRASH THAT'S BEEN DROPPED INTO A BUCKET OF GASOLINE AND SET ON FIRE". Needless to say, I love this book! No actually, I really love this book!

Dorothy is feeling aimless these days. She's an adjunct professor living in New York, offsetting the fear of never escaping "adjunct hell" by seeing two therapists, one to helps Dorothy work through her problems in life and the other to work through her problems that result from her first therapist's attempts to work through her problems in life. Oh, and she's just suffered a miscarriage. And, to be perfectly honest, that's about all that happens in the novel. Sure there's a work trip to Las Vegas that occurs about halfway through, as well as a perfectly detailed dinner party that devolves (or evolves, depending on how fun you are) into a drunken karaoke night, but the real magic of The Life of the Mind is the writing. And damn, can Christine Smallwood write a sentence. She takes the smallest, most innocuous moments and turns them into high-minded reflections on life and art. In one standout passage, Dorothy encounters a homeless man on the subway who she compares, in a brilliantly pretentious manner, to the Mariner in "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner" (never read, probably never will). It's Christine Smallwood's uncanny ability to slightly recalculate life, to take an average moment (a trip on the subway, a work conference, an ultrasound) and make it seem unfamiliar, almost ridiculous. It's the same type of destabilization that the Strange Planet comics perform, only Dorothy is way more cynical, way more disenfranchised, and way, way funnier. 

The Butterfly Lampshade by Aimee Bender 

I bought this book because the cover is literally everything to me, and also because one of my favorite sub-genres is "woman goes through trauma and slowly disconnects with reality". And as a cis-male, I would like to say that yes, I should probably unpack why I'm so fascinated with women losing their goddamn minds, but we don't have time for that right now, okay?? Maybe I'll talk later about how Mulholland Drive, Suspiria, and Black Swan are, like, pique cinema for me, and then we can address whatever patriarchal bug has been implanted in my brain that makes it so easy for me to scream "yaaaasssss" while Naomi Watts, ahem, LOSES HER GODDAMN MIND. 

So The Butterfly Lampshade is a beautifully written novel about a woman named Francie who, at an early age, was forced to move in with her aunt and uncle after her mother experienced a psychotic episode. Much like The Life of the Mind, the plot is hardly the driving force of the story because, ahem, not much happens. Like, almost nothing. The entire novel is basically one big recollection as adult-Francie attempts to make sense of childhood-Francie's memories, particularly three incidents in which something unreal (a butterfly on a lampshade, a beetle on a homework assignment, a rose on a curtain) became real (an actual butterfly, an actual beetle, an actual rose, oh my!). And let me tell you, I turned it out for these moments of weird, almost supernatural shenanigans that form the foundation for the novel's exploration of memory and trauma. And I say "exploration" for a reason, because there are very few answers to be found within the pages of this novel. Aimee Bender is not interested in spoon-feeding you succinct conclusions on what it means to be pulled away from your mother as a child, or how it's possible to move on from that site of trauma in a meaningful way, and that's probably because there are no succinct answers to questions like that. Life is hard and it sucks a lot of the time, but it's also filled with rare moments of magic that Aimee Bender seems to know like the back of her hand. When I tell you I was sobbing at the end of this novel, I mean I was S-O-B-B-I-N-G. And did I mention the book's cover is soooooo hot? 

And because I'm literally obsessed.com with lists/rankings, I decided to list all the books I've read in March from least to most favorite! Buzzfeed is literally shaking. 

(meh vibes)

7. wow, no thank you by Samantha Irby

6. Paul takes the form of a mortal girl by Andrea Lawlor

5. How to Be an Anti-capitalist in the 21st Century by Erik Olin Wright

4. McGlue by Otessa Moshfegh

3. The Three Stigmata of Palmer Eldritch by Philip K. Dick

2. The Butterfly Lampshade by Aimee Bender 

1. The Life of the Mind by Christine Smallwood

(everything to me vibes)

Okay, bye!

xoxoxoxo, 

March, you won't be missed, mama! 

what i've read in march (so far!)

It's March and let me tell you, T.S. Eliot really didn't know what he was talking about when he said April was the cruelest month. Once, in high school, I had to do a "close reading" of The Waste Land and I was all "oh yeah, April is def the cruelest month because, like, Spring is all about death and how flowers, like, come from the ground and how we also come from the ground if you think about it so really it's cruel that all these beautiful things come from the ground which is objectively kinda gross and smells kinda weird and also, have you ever stepped out of your car directly into a dirty puddle?" Anyway, high school me was dead wrong. April is, in fact, NOT the monthly equivalent of stepping into a direct puddle, and do you want to know why? Because that spot has already been taking by the month of March! It's uneventful, the weather is uncooperative, and no one can tell me why the city of Chicago STILL dyes the entire river an unholy shade of green. 

But I digress because this is not a blog devoted to roasting the month of March, nor do I care enough to pretend that I like any of the other months besides my birth month (October, hi Libras!) and occasionally December, but only when it involves getting gifts and/or watching Four Christmases unironically. So, here's what I've read so far in the month of March: 

 (please do not come for me re: my photography skills, art direction, or inability to place four books in a straight grid...thank you!)

How to Be an Anti-Capitalist in the 21st Century by Erik Olin Wright

Ah yes, the One in Which I Become Radicalized. And I'm sure a bunch of you are thinking "well of course you're a socialist, you're unemployed!" to which I say...Actually, I'm not even going to address that criticism because 1) actually no, that's not the truth, Ellen, and also 2) mom?? is that you?? This book should be re-titled An Idiot's Guide to Anti-Capitalism because it reads like a very basic, very watered-down version of something you might read on the quad of your liberal arts college in an attempt to impress that one person sitting across from you who has really good bone structure but also is a Marxist. 

Admittedly, I am not a smart person. I went to a smart person's college and have absolutely nothing to show for it except maybe the ability to enter an hour-long trance and emerge with a semi-legible essay. So now that I'm (say it with me!) UNEMPLOYED and also BORED I thought: "well, now's a good time to learn about the world and more importantly, why it sucks so bad". The answer? Capitalism, duh! How to Be An Anticapitalist addresses the issue in very manageable chunks, beginning with a definition of socialism that's built around three guiding principles: equality/fairness, democracy/freedom, and community/solidarity. From there, Wright constructs his vision for eroding capitalism that's as well-intentioned as it is sparse. There are only a few sources cited directly in the text, even fewer footnotes. The arguments are convincing only because there is next to nothing standing in the way— no opposition, no push-back, no self-reflection. And look, I'm not advocating for a sequel to Das Kapital because I didn't understand that the first time I read it, and, like I mentioned earlier, I'm trying to become a smarter person not just a person who reads books for smart people. So, for what it's worth, I appreciate what Erik Olin Wright is doing. I'm trying to become a smarter person but, more importantly, I'm trying to become a better, more well-informed person, and How to Be an Anti-Capitalist is a perfect step towards PLUNDERING JEFF BEZOS OF ALL HE'S WORTH MWAHAHAHAHA. 

wow, no thank you by Samantha Irby

Warning: this review is about to sound whack as f*ck. I, a human-being on the internet who's just started a blog, am about to criticize Samantha Irby, a human-being on the internet, for turning her successful blog "BITCHES GOTTA EAT" into three (well-received!!!) essay collections. So yes, I am unsuccessful and therefore nothing like Samantha Irby, but my opinion is valid and even if it's not, here it is anyway: wow, no thank you does not need to be 316 pages. Like most collections I've read, there are at least 2-3 essays that I would have cut altogether (seriously, no one wants to read a 10+ page list of things that are better than sex, especially me, a person who is not having sex and has already figured out the next best thing ((it's sitting in the McDonald's drive-thru, listening to a podcast))). Also, a lot of the essays are just really surface-level. While they reflect on topics such as body positivity, love, and marriage, they rarely move past the initial stage of poking fun at a thing until it becomes ridiculous. And look, that stuff can be really funny, but throughout the collection, small moments of illumination into life and culture were treated as minor detours when compared to the true destination of almost all of the essays: the punchline. Of course, the punchlines are always phenomenal, and I did laugh out loud multiple times while reading this book, but there are plenty of authors whose books are both funny and thoughtful. I decided to read this book after Samantha Irby was announced as a writer for the Sex and the City reboot, and the most cogent review I can give of the book is this: wow, no thank you does absolutely nothing to alleviate the sense of impending doom I feel re: this Samantha-less reboot. 

McGlue by Otessa Moshfegh

It was April of 2020 and I was headed home, making the five-hour drive from Chicago to who-knows-where, Michigan to quarantine with my family. College life was basically #canceled, all my friends had escaped to different corners of the continental United States, and I was NOT vibing. Also, I had an audiobook of My Year of Rest and Relaxation playing while I sped past cornfields and industrial silos and cow farms and barns exclusively selling fireworks and cornfields and cornfields and cornfields. When I got home, I told everyone to shut up, I was in the middle of a really good audiobook and could I please have some peace and quiet??? After I finished, I texted everyone I knew, recommending the book as THE quarantine novel. Not necessarily a revolutionary thought but I was hooked and, more importantly, I wanted more. Later that year I read Death in Her Hands and then Homesick for Another World. Most recently I read Eileen, which weirdly made me want to work as a secretary in a prison. JK lol, abolish the prison-industrial complex! 

McGlue is the first published work of Moshfegh's and the last in my completionist arc. The novella follows the drunken musings of a 19th-century sailor who may or may not have killed his best friend but again, he's super drunk, like, 95% of the novel. The writing is, as always, superbly acidic, the characters equally unforgiving as they navigate the banal, almost surreal environs of Moshfegh's imagination. But writing like that isn't always palatable, and McGlue occasionally falls into patterns of no-holds-barred nihilism that is enjoyable only after you've read it. Does that make sense? My Year of Rest and Relaxation, for example, had a similar style of evisceration, but the protagonist was weirdly relatable and the entire project of sleeping for an entire year was as exciting as it was depressing. Homesick for Another World, however, fared less favorably in my imagination, mainly because short stories, as a form, do not provide enough substance to counteract the mental fatigue of reading about miserable people living miserable lives while thinking miserable thoughts in miserable spaces. 

BRIEF SIDE NOTE: Ottessa Moshfegh Novels Ranked on Bleakness, According to Me!

(doomscroll vibes)

1. Homesick for Another World 

2. McGlue

3. Eileen

4. Death in Her Hands

5. My Year of Rest and Relaxation 

(okay, things aren't THAT bad vibes)

Back to our scheduled programming: McGlue is good but also hard to read. If you're a fan of alcoholism, sailors, and/or the "bro" subcategory of gay porn, then McGlue is the novella for you! 

Paul takes the form of a mortal girl by Andrea Lawlor

Hmmm what to say about the plot of Paul takes the form of a mortal girl? 

Hmmm what to say about the style of Paul takes the form of a mortal girl?

Hmmm what to say about the writing of Paul takes the form of a mortal girl?

Hmmm what to say about Paul takes the form of a mortal girl?

Short answer: I have no idea!

Paul takes the form of a mortal girl is all about defying expectations. Every word, every sentence, every paragraph, every chapter is laced with wild child energy that makes the novel both immensely entertaining and completely uncategorizable. On the cover, Eileen Myles describes the book as "tight", while Maggie Nelson goes for a simple "hot". The New York Times is a little more generous, describing it as "difficult to quote in a family newspaper". Well folks, this is certainly NOT a family newspaper so here's the real tea: Paul takes the form of a mortal girl includes a lot of sex. Like, a lot. And not just the kind you'd see on Grey's Anatomy, but the kind that's dirty and awkward and uncomfortable and weird and rebellious and destructive and scary and sweet and...yeah, there's a lot of sex. And sex means different things at different times in the novel, partly because Paul, the titular character, is a queer shapeshifter who can go from muscular leather daddy to femme lesbian with just a thought. Have I not mentioned that yet? Whoops!

So yeah, Paul is, like, totally defying gender and genre as they navigate queer life across the country, dealing with all the things that college-aged people deal with: awkward bar encounters, awkward hookups, awkward first dates, etc. Paul, they're just like us except way, way cooler and also nothing like us because, again, THEY ARE A SHAPESHIFTER WHO HAS A LOT OF SEX. 

If I have one critique, it's that reading Paul takes the form of a mortal girl can be occasionally exhausting. Have you ever met a person who's so infinitely cooler than you it gets kinda annoying? Like, no I haven't heard of this Swedish underground electronic death metal group that's all the rage on alt-twitter right now and no I haven't heard of this movie that can only be viewed in Brooklyn on a full moon and no, I haven't heard of any of these things and now I feel infinitely less cool because of it. Well, that's how reading Paul takes the form of a mortal girl can occasionally feel. There are a lot of cultural references in this book, the majority of which come from the 90s. For context: I was born in 1997 and raised on Disney Channel, so I understood approximately 0% of the culture referenced which was FRUSTRATING. Also, "cool" as a mode of storytelling can become monotonous and alienating when there's a sense of superiority that underlines that "coolness". Or maybe I'm just insecure but seriously, who knew "Hole" was the name of a band???

Welp, there you go! The four books I've read in the terrible month of March. Bye for now!

xoxoxoxo,

still unemployed, still pretending not to care 

an introduction to the void

Hi, I'm here to impress you! If this was a dating app, I'd try my hardest to sound desirable. I'd talk about what I like— Diet Coke, novels that make me seem smarter than I actually am, drive-thrus— while completely avoiding what I don't like— pretty much everything else. 

But this is not a dating app, it's a blog (SO much worse), and I have absolutely no desire to market myself as desirable considering 1) I'm emotionally unavailable and 2) literally no one is going to read this...ever (did I mention this is a blog written in 2021?). So here's the truth: I'm 23 and unemployed. I went to college to study English Literature and the Universe thought it would be funny to reward my exercise in complete financial uncertainty by doubling down and introducing a global p******c that sent me scuttling home, tail between my legs. I now help my mother grocery shop while occasionally fielding pop-culture-related queries from my father like: "Who is Megan Thee Stallion and why does she keep sticking her tongue out at me?" and "WHAT. IS. MANK???" I still don't have an answer to that last question because, let's be honest, I'd much rather rewatch Gone Girl for the 50th time while trying to internally justify the actions of one miss Amy Dunne. 

That brings me to my next point of introduction: this blog is about books. I like books a lot. I like reading books, I like buying books, I like pulling books out of my New Yorker tote bag (no, I don't actually read The New Yorker from cover to cover but I HAVE read Trick Mirror and also, doesn't the bag's orange color look so cute paired with my Levi's jacket and general air of indifference?). So, I'm starting this blog because I have literally nothing better to do (read: no seasons left of the Real Housewives to binge) and because I genuinely like talking about what I've read and why I liked/disliked it.

So if you want to date me, the answer is no (again, emotionally unavailable), but if you like books, tangents, and/or utterly basic pop culture references, then this blog is, like, totally for you. And that's hot. 

xoxo, 

unemployed and pretending not to care