The Entertainment

I finished Infinite Jest tonight. It’s Halloween—how apropos. It only took my five months and two copies. I would be the P.G.O.A.T. for Halloween, but I don’t have a veil or a crackpipe. Plus, I’m trying to fold a toga out of a sheet. It won’t stay on. Boo!

Most of us need the eggs.

You need to love me patiently, like you’re whisking in eggs, or else it will all coddle.

Hate is a strong word.

There is nothing—nothing—I hate more than this.

I’m his plus one, and he’s deep in conversation with another writer from another publication.

In heels, I’m taller than him, and yet, he walks into the room and because of his stupid job, that (okay, I admit it) I am completely jealous of, people approach him and l0ck him into the type of indulgent, self-satisfying conversation that I can so easily identify because I am, ironically, a publicist, and can spot the body language, the compliments and the fawning.

So I sit here, totally abandoned beside him, watching quietly.

I hate this.

Sometimes I still need you.

The xx – Heart Skipped a Beat

Literrors

Can a writer date a writer?

It’s worked before. Take Mary and Percy Shelley. Elizabeth Barrett Browning and Robert Browning. Joan Didion and John Dunne. Sylvia Plath and Ted Hughes.

Just kidding.

But this one might be doomed. We’re all drawn-out-drama, all thunderstorms and lightening bolts. You know, we’re a conversational shipwreck—in a good way. But sooner or later, my head might end up in the oven.

Diet Delight

You want to lose ten pounds in two days? Day one: raw chicken. Day two: bleach.

Social Networking

Facebook is no place to air your dirty laundry. It should be washed thoroughly and air-dried on Twitter.

Health Insurance

You may be wondering why I don’t shut down my career and just freelance write.

I, like every other New Yorker with a hysterical Jewish mother, will offer the same explanation:

Health insurance.