(Ping Pong table, Chateau Marmont. Photo by David Swanson)
My fingernails are too long to live the kind of life that I do. It smells like rain outside. I made a list of terms of endearment in Hebrew and am considering using them all in one sentence.
What do ‘kisses like peanut butter’ make you think of? What would it be like to kiss or be kissed that way? I’m trying to decide. I might eat a spoonful of peanut butter, and write some things down about it.
It’s after midnight. I watched a documentary made by Julius and Ethel Rosenberg’s granddaughter, Ivy Meeropol, and saw the footage of the crowds on the Lower East Side on June 19, 1953, the day of the execution, waiting and praying and wailing. Michael Meeropol, one of Julius’ and Ethel’s two sons, lives in the city I grew up in. I’ve looked for signs to help me know exactly where, but so far, I haven’t found them.
(Also, a sofa in the middle of the desert and a fire and some kids around it. They sing and play flashlight tag and stay up very late.)
One of the many reasons I believe in G-d is because I was totally eating peanut butter when I read this.
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