Yesterday I felt sad so I spent a bunch of my dollars on books. Woolf and Didion and a little Murakami because why not? Why not do a lot of things? My apartment is all water-stained and sour from a broken pipe in some wall upstairs and it’s all I’ve been talking about lately but maaaaaaan, my nest! Better to fill it with books, stack ‘em up high til I can’t see the browning ceiling and chipping paint.

I moved in two May’s ago now. It’s funny, I moved to this place out of necessity, with a big broken heart, and I couldn’t even remember what it looked like after I saw it for the first time. I just signed the papers and wrote the checks and listened to Cat Power and cried. But then I unpacked, filled the little studio with Charlie fur and plants, tip-toed around for the first month and now I love it in here, goddammit! Now it is wounded and I feel wounded too, and it’s silly and I’m silly and what’s the point of anything.

I guess what I’m trying to say is: What’s your favorite book, and would it be weird if I immediately order it online after you tell it to me?