shit, moleskine cahiers. i was looking through one of spencer's the other day and it just made me think of a few summers ago when i carried one in my back pocket at all times. i love the filled ones i have - the makeshift calendars, the lists of books i wanted to buy, phone numbers, paragraphs complaining about the bus never being on time. i also thought about how i've kept some sort of notebook - or several - since i was in elementary school. i don't know why i feel so compelled to write things down all the time, but i do. it's never really interesting - there are no manifestos or grand ideas, really, just bits of (other people's) poetry and me going on about clothes and books and people. i guess that's what i write about here, too. nothing too interesting but for some reason important enough to me to write it down - and in this case, share with other people. i guess what i'm saying is that this blog is born out of a bit of a compulsion, one that i admittedly feel a little self-conscious about but am slowly but surely learning to accept.
this is the part when i wonder why the fuck i'm going on about nothing in particular, even after apparently ~figuring it out
also can i just say that i love "crystal roads" by the fungi girls and hate overgrown bro-y business/communication majors (probz, anyway) who still, for some ungodly reason, gel their hair and argue with girls standing in line for ice cream