No One Belongs Here More Than You

I think I have frostbite.

Currently reading "No one belongs here more than you. Stories by Miranda July," it's a good distraction while my boyfriend is busy watching basketball.

I have this annoying habit of defacing books I buy by underlining sentences that I like. Sometimes it could be one sentence per every few chapters, sometimes it's almost an entire chapter underlined. I stole this technique from a writers workshop class I took for half a semester in high school. When I'm having writers block I'll flip open an old favorite a few ball pointed sentences, hoping to light my pilot-light of creativity.

So far I have underlined:
If there were a map of the solar system but instead of stars it showed people and their degrees of separation, my star would be the one you had to travel the most light years from to get to his. You would die getting to him. You could only hope that your grandchild's children would get to him. But they wouldn't know what to do; they wouldn't know how to hold him. And he would be dead; he would be replaced by his great-grandson's beautiful strapping song.

All my life I have had the same dream. It's what they call reoccurring; it always unfolds to the same conclusion.

I'm only on chapter two since the Celtics game is a "roll out" and I am currently being summoned back to bed.

Maybe a blueberry muffin with some grapefruit juice soon I love days like this. My lips will always be chapped up here in the mountains, but at least I stay warm.