Oct. 1st, 2012

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On this beautiful, cool, mostly overcast first day of October, there was a ventral, borborygmous insurrection as I was sitting in the library, whose violence intensified proportionally with the number of food pictures upon which I laid mine eyne with each flip of the cookbook pages. (It wasn't a cooking for dummies book, even if it most likely should have been.)

What didn't necessarily help with my hunger pangs was that mesomorphic DILF who made my singlegirlproblems concomitantly flare up -- nor did my reading about sharpening an image from a book on Photoshop. In the book, a man's pores were been sharpened to try to enhance the quality of the picture. My brain transduced that experience of seeing imperfections highlighted on paper into amplification of my own imperfections/woes: my singlegirlproblems, my famished girl problems (see abovementioned insurrection), penniless girl problems, gayficient girlwholikesboyswholikeboysproblems...basically havenotgirlproblems. The girl with the white iPhone and the iPad sitting in front of me propelled me into a ♪whooooole neewww third fourth fifth sixth seventh-wooooooorld♪ shitstorm of havenotproblems.

Fortunately, a book on knitting lay on the table in front of me: my future was staring me in the face! Fortunately I've already started investing in the spinster materials! This sort of segued into the recollection of having read this excerpt earlier:

Maturity was the sunset of beauty. From eighteen to twenty-five years the beauty of him who is loved subtly alters its form. The first glow of sunset, when every cloud in the sky takes on the color of sweet fresh fruit, symbolizes the color of the cheeks of the boy between eighteen and twenty, the soft nape of his neck, the fresh blueness of his shaved collar line and his lips like a girl's. When the sunset glow reaches its peak and the clouds blaze many-colored and the sky goes mad with an expression of joy, one thinks of the blossom time of youth, from twenty to twenty-three. Then his look is somewhat fierce, his cheeks are taut, his mouth is gradually making plain the will of the man. At the same time, in the color still glowing shyly in his cheek, and in the soft streamlining of his brows, traces of the evanescent moment of a boy's beauty can be seen. Finally, the time when the burnt-out clouds take on a grave complexion and the setting sun tosses its remaining beams like hair is comparable to age twenty-four or twenty-five when, though his eyes are replete with pure gleams, in his cheeks are seen a beauty transcending the severity of its stern masculine will. - A Book Called 禁色


(Mostly the emboldened part.)

Also, I'm apparently not even good enough to complete this (35/41, which is sort of in the B/B- range):



I did, however, enter not one but two sweeps to win movie tickets to the theatres I haven't patronized in years. Even if I were to win tickets, with whom would I go, really?




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