First-off, in the words of Madonna’s most shameless spawn, Lady Gaga, there is no more adoring Madonna fan than me.
Everything — housing, food, drinks, activities — is more expensive. Places are harder to get tables at, harder to get into. Lines are longer. But isn’t that part of the thrill? That this love is never totally requited?
Half-frozen rivers; mountains that are simultaneously covered in snow and being broiled by the sun.
You’re a walking, talking sign that says, “Hey! Remember that time you were stupid?”
I thought of the countless books in just that one library. How many of them haven’t been read in years if not decades?
Apparently the only possible reason I could feel this way is because, on some level, I am seething with jealousy and bitter, childish rage over their ability to succeed in the face of my unequivocal failures.
A good story, when we question it, is much like this universe, this Earth.
On a subway crushing with people wanting to get a gander at him, (I mean, can I live?!) Jay takes some time to chat with a sweet white-haired woman who asks, “Are you famous?”
When I was 18, I would have probably told you that it was impossible to even be a writer without going through some CRAZY shit and coming out the other side, without partying or experiencing life’s wacked out niches, without being an outspoken outsider with their life held together by dental floss and chewing gum.
We don’t need a new Marilyn, we had the old Marilyn and that ended tragically. Why are we romanticizing that?