i'm becoming more economical.

The smell of the warm air gives me strange, delicious cravings. I wish I could bottle the scent and ferment it with others I love - fresh tomatoes, Lilly and Nick's apartment - and hide them somewhere dark for a month to let them marry until they became my perfect perfume. I'd daub it on the parts of my skin that aren't covered with clothing in the summertime (read: almost every bit of me).

I've been answering advertisements that seek greeting card writers. Some people place so much stock in the sentiments that come in envelopes, and these people are my potential market. My family always kept a box of them in order to be ready for any occasion that might come our way. I rediscovered it in high school and noticed we had an inordinate number of "Happy Valentine's Day, Great-Grandmother!" ones. I'm talking, like, eight of those specific cards. They spent years in that shoebox. It makes a certain amount of sense - I mean, it's not like you can just whip one of those out every time you're going to a party, like you would with your standard "Happy Birthday!" teddy-bear-with-balloons dealies.

The oddly specific ones were always my favorite. I think everyone forgot about the box eventually, so I started mailing one card to my then-boyfriend daily. He got pretty angry at me when I started forgetting to do it, which was strange. I began to feel this sense of duty to send him "Congratulations On Your Bat Mitzvah" or "Losing A Pet Is Like Losing A Family Member" cards routinely. Now that's what I call romance.



I'll leave you with my favorite-ever photograph. It's of Anthony Perkins and Audrey Hepburn, who happens to be feeding champagne to a doe.