Oh my!

I had no idea. I actually have to leave the state on Thursday. It's a very good thing that I realized Friday was actually not the 19th of June.

Whew.

I've been shopping a lot lately, which I hate, not because I don't like shopping, but 1) because I feel guilty leaching all this cash from my Mom, and 2) because the money could be put to such better use... in Istanbul.

Seriously. My grandpa gave me 1,000 dollars towards my trip. How can you convey thanks for that? I mean, it was his tax return, but still. I don't think I ever got mine. Cursed filthy Republican administration/IRS bastards.

La la la











Anyway, so yeah. Istanbul by Orhan Pamuk is actually a lot better than I thought it would be. It did win the Nobel prize in literature, but I thought that didn't mean much when I started. It's been such a drag. But now that I'm almost done, I realize it's simple genius. You don't have to care about the individual experiences this man had while you're reading it. At some points you even think how ridiculous it is that he assumes you will care. But really, I don't think he assumes you will care. I think it is written as a way for him to expel the bile of his soul, his hüzün, his past, and his city, all in a way that is most easily understood when read as a private diary, stolen from a dresser drawer. This next chapter "First Love" is really great.

Sometimes I don't know if a warm feeling is coming from a certain social interaction or all of the wool I wear. That's confusing.

So I advise trying to be more sure about that, although you women are likely already in tune with that sort of thing.

And remember, grease is the word.