Great idea, moving to Exarcheia; so I can envelope myself in the vibrating murmur in dolby stereo surround, of all these buzzing people in all these bars, fervently socializing. How does one arrange these things? Are they all friends? Did they make plans to meet or just happen to run into each other and went for a drink? Sitting across each other, they seem so engrossed in each other, taking turns to chime in or naturally cut in like butter with the next joke or tea. So relaxed and at ease and pleased and in flow. The fuck are they saying to each other? What the fuck is that like? How the goddamn fuck does one do that? 

Writhing with envy; Lucky I don’t own a gυn. 

Emo at 53? Tragic.

All the places that a C- face on a B+ body will accept you.

Ran into someone on Friday, I was rushing out of FedEx with a new pair of silk Lanvin pants I tracked down in Tokyo and I felt eyes on me so I turned, he was smiling, I smiled back, stopped as if I recognized him and spewed a chirpful hi! Spent 10 mins chatting about my struggles to have my fucking film produced and about his home on Andros island. I don’t know who he is. He seemed nice. I sort of think he might be someone I thought I disliked, but he seemed nice. Early onset of Alzheimer’s is no fun but at least I don’t have to be fully present which takes the edge off.

It’s becoming very clear to me how people end up shοοting up places. The shοοter is often the least guilty one. The trιgger is truly pulled by those getting shοt. Beat someone up long enough and you’ll bring it on yourself.