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I’m twenty six years old and I still think smoking is cool. Then again, I also don’t really eat vegetables. I can’t help but think that all those PSAs failed me. The thing is, my parents raised me right – I never really did drugs or fucked up in school. I’m fiscally responsible, kind, compassionate, et cetera. I even somehow inherited the nickname “Mama Sian.”

But I just love the way a cigarette feels between my fingers. I love the way the smoke curls around my fingertips. I love how smoking cigarettes makes me feel like I’m sixteen again, living in France, drunkenly dancing around medieval fountains. Or seventeen, wrapped in a blanket with my first love, sharing a Camel Light. Or twenty one, chain smoking and drinking red wine in bed with my then-boyfriend and college roommates all piled in.

I’ve quit so many times. God, I hope this one sticks. Maybe I’ll start wearing perfume again…

Or I’m at least going to go read that David Sedaris piece from the New Yorker again.

In a conversation about Gothic novels, Strawberry Hill, neo-Gothic architecture, English moors, love and romance (what else do I ever talk about?) I was told by one of my dearest (and most new agey) friends that my spirit animal was Kate Bush. I don’t know how I feel about spirit animals or Kate Bush for that matter, but I’m intrigued…

What’s your spirit animal?

me: oh st patrick’s day
what a retarded holiday
Anna: haha
i love being irish
but yes it is a stupid day
but my mother is making sodabread
me: st patrick’s not even my favorite irish saint
obviously
Anna: ha
who is?
i enjoy gerome
me: columba
duh
Anna: why?
his apostolic skills?
me: book of kells connection
Anna: ohh
me: plus he was kind of awesome
Anna: i like st oliver plunket because of his name
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Oliver_Plunkett
me: that’s also a hot portrait
my boyfriend: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Columba
Anna: haha
me: plus almost all of his miracles
have do with books
you know how i heart books

n(i)a(gr)a

i heart drunken japanese graffiti!

niagara has also been the scene of many a drunken weeknight (and one makeout) for me, too!

girls

Someone recently asked me what I feared most. Not wanting to answer, I asked him back. He said drowning. I said loneliness. I’m also totally afraid of serial killers (to the point where I often refuse to sleep with my windows open in my un-air-conditioned apartment in July). But that’s an irrational fear. Very few people succumb to a grizzly death at the hands of John Wayne Gacy Jr. wannabes. Everyone’s lonely. All the time. Loneliness is the human condition. We’re obsessed with patching it up like a bike tire that just keeps deflating. We fill it with endless happy hour cocktails, late-night conversations, romantic relationships, meaningless sex. As someone much more adorable than me once said:

But more and more we’re suffering
Not nobody, not a thousand beers
Will keep us from feeling so all alone

Yesterday a friend sent me the following IM about my least favorite New York Times Column:

Anna: oh my god
you have to read modern love
you know i always hate it
hate it
but i love this one
and i’m almost in tears

Me too, Anna. Maybe we’re not alone. Maybe it’s possible to love someone even when they’re shitting in your bed. Maybe we’re all so lucky we should just shut the fuck up and skip through winter and into spring.

Then, this morning, another friend wrote something really pretty about sleeplessness and happiness and misery and a song I really like. And I couldn’t sleep the night before. And it was like, across an ocean, someone just knew that. And all of a sudden I wasn’t so lonely. I don’t believe in signs. But maybe I believe in looking for them. Maybe the only way we aren’t so lonely is if we continue to believe in fairytales, in illusions…

I’m in love with illusions
So saw me in half
I’m in love with tricks
So pull another rabbit out of your hat

sincerely, l. cohen

If you’ve ever lived in Montreal then you know that Leonard Cohen is akin to a rare bird or a ghost; everyone’s always talking about their sightings of the troubadour. If you’re lucky you will catch a glimpse of him on a spring afternoon at an open-air café on rue St. Denis sharing coffee with a pretty young thing. At 74, the man, apparently, still has game. You’ll want to quote him that passage about Montreal in spring from Beautiful Losers. You’ll want to tell him that you went to McGill, too, and that you aspire to write a book of poetry, poetry about love and sex that only someone in their twenties could write.

Back on tour, the ladies’ man (lady’s man?) is getting a lot of press these days. He has been all over my personal life in the strangest of ways, too – his songs creeping into my love life and my iPod.

In a way, L.Cohen is my favorite sex writer. The majority of his songs, most of his poetry and both of his novels are unapologetically about sex. Well, sex and spirituality, which are, for the record, pretty much my two favorite things. So, to answer Let’s Talk About Sex’s question from my last post, maybe all sex writers are indeed “repressed, cheating, cruel, etc.” I mean, Leonard Cohen wrote a song about a dead woman having given him head on an unmade bed and a book in which one of the main characters spends his days masturbating in a dingy basement while the other rots away from syphilis. And God (and probably Buddha, too) knows he fucked around. Is that cruel? Perhaps. But maybe people who love imaginatively are always a little bit sadistic and a little bit masochistic. All the best lovers I know are. By lovers, I don’t mean people I’ve slept with. Open your minds! I mean all the people I know who are most committed to the idea of love. They wander through life, loving intensely, painfully and they usually leave a wake of broken hearts behind them.

Love is not a victory march.

*haven’t posted in awhile. this piece may or may not be featured on slice magazine’s blog, which you should check out anyway, if you haven’t.

f my life?

Today i realized that i may or may not have the sense of humor of a twelve year-old.

Fuck My Life

This shit is ridiculous. And hilarious. But it certainly makes me realize that, nostalgia aside, you couldn’t pay me to go back to high school.

I’m 26 years old and I spent about ten minutes on gchat sending posts from this site back and forth with a friend instead of updating conversion series emails. FML.

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