diet coca cola and unlit cigareetes

Sometimes London makes me feel a little bit dry, both in my skin and my soul. Maybe that's what it's like to be content or something, but I'm not sure if I like it. I constantly have the urge to write something down, and so I pick up a pen and hold it above the paper, and then realize I don't actually have anything to say. It's like when you talk just to hear your own voice. It's like when you go to take a swig of your drink and realize that you already drank it all. But it's getting better. In the last few weeks I have been reading some really amazing things for my classes. I started off feeling pretty apathetic to most of it, but now I feel an urge to copy down all of the Great Gatsby in my own handwriting. Faulkner too, and Lorca, and Yeats and Ginsberg and Hemmingway. I'm not completely positive but I think maybe America is the best country, or lack thereof, in the world. Not best in the sense that a european might mean (i.e., actually good), but best in all the ways that the europeans never think of. I am being deliberately vague here because I don't actually know what I'm talking about. I don't think I've ever really been to America any more than I've been to France. I am judging purely by what I've heard. ex:

"I look at it, and I think it is the most beautiful history in the world. It is the history of me and of my people. And if I came here yesterday I should still think so. It is the history of all aspiration--not just the American dream but the human dream and if I came at the end of it that too is a place in the line of pioneers."

So maybe I am more at home in american literature than I am in any given physical space. That is sad, but in a beautiful way, and what could be more american than that? Maybe Wilco?

So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.

I realized that my bottom lip is crooked.

There are way too many options in my life. For instance, tomorrow: finish paper, devendra banhart, or bonfire party at ministry of sound? All three so valuable in different ways. I wish I was being chased by robbers down a narrow alleyway with about a foot on either side between my car and a wall (image courtesy of dave eggers (this symbolism seems disgustingly obvious now but I think it's just because I have thought about it a lot) ). That would be such a relief.

Should I go to grad school? Can I even afford that? What would be the point, besides procrastination? I doubt I will know within a year.

I keep on thinking I am settled, and then getting more settled and realizing I wasn't actually settled before. I wonder when this will stop. I wonder if I really am settled this time. It feels like it. It's nice to come home to a kitchen full of people. It's nice to drink tea. It's nice to feel necessary. It's nice to do your homework. It's nice to live in the first person, if only for a night.