i miss them, but it wasn't a disaster

Fact: the Christian Louboutin peeptoe pump was created to torment poor, unpaid interns into sheer insanity. The worst part is how Neiman Marcus keeps the Louboutin table right at the top of the escalator, so I can't even look away, or fight the urge to pick one up and do the justification in my head ("Okay, so one pair equals 5 dresses, or half a handbag. I could swing it. No I can't. I shouldn't. But it'll look so good with that outfit! And I can wear these for years! What if I returned those 7's??"). Speaking of which, there is a designer denim sample sale on Saturday in Soho if anyone is interested in stocking up before the semester begins. I highly recommend it.

Tomorrow, I'm going to force myself to crack open Our Mutual Friend and read it from cover to cover within 2-3 days. There's this article I printed out that links the novel to Darwin, but I still haven't quite figured out how the person plans to spin that argument. I'm much more fascinated with Nordau though, so perhaps I can find something in OMF to make that connection. In a week or two, I'll also have to mail over a portfolio to my creative writing prof, so I need to get myself sullen enough to write at least a few new poems. So nobody make me happy within that time, ya hear?

So, Jen's coming home Saturday from NJGSS. Then the Wednesday after, we're going to see Wicked with my dad. And then I'm pretty sure we're taking a few days to help Jen shop for colleges, even though she has her heart pretty much set on Yale to do pre-med and whatnot. Oh, and I've been entertaining the thought of going to law school again, but it definitely won't happen until after I get some job experience and time living la vie boheme in NYC. Did I mention this already? I can't be sure.

Oh darlings, if you have time, write a letter to someone. They are beautiful things, to receive and to send. Whenever I do research on an author, the letters are always the first things I go for. Virginia Woolf's are the most fun to read, I think. I'm pretty sure I have a small stack of letters from high school that I wrote, but was never brave enough to send. And I'm glad I never did, and equally glad I never threw them away, because they're just so stupid and entertaining, perhaps to no one but myself. I stopped writing letters in college, I don't know why. No one to write to, I guess. To me, at least, they're very personal, and if I give myself time to think about it long enough, I won't send it out. I used to have the same problem with blogs until I realized the best thing for me to do is to just write and get it all out of my head, and let the critics worry about the quality. What was that line in Ratatouille? Something about how the worst art still means more than the best criticism, so I'll just keep telling myself that and hopefully get over this ridiculous insecurity.