I WOULD SEND YOU A BIRD TO SING YOU SWEET NOTHINGS

I think I will start with some photobooth. I've been making a lot of mail lately. Above is a thank you postcard to my grandma.
Here are some envelopes, they are mostly made from pages of old books (namely the ones from K's family garage sale.)






It all came about in my last desperate effort to find the library book that is lost. I should really just give it up at this point, but I just know that as soon as I pay for it it will turn up somewhere and be annoying. I'm considering just buying a new copy of the book and giving them that... considering that when I asked about the situation in which it would turn up they told me I should just keep it [which is a little silly] and I think that having the book available would be better than not having it and would compensate for me misplacing it. Anyway. I was looking through the various piles of books that exist throughout my room and while flipping through one on dinosaurs and other creatures I decided to make some envelopes. [This is why I can never seem to clean my room entirely, cleaning it inevitably leads to different projects with the things I find.] Other than making post I have been reading and watching films and spending the last few days of my summer lazing about. Which is good and bad. I do not like to feel unproductive and like I am wasting the day, but its nice to not have a hundred things to do (which will be the case as soon as I step off the plane in Boston.) I am excited to go back to the city since I haven't been there for so long and see all the lovely people I have met over the past few months. I've been thinking back to castle days and wondering how my friendships from there will hold up. So far all the castle brats who are still on the East coast are seeing each other regularly so I'm inclined to think that more adventures will be had with them. Its strange and bittersweet though, because so far I have been able to enjoy the luxury of coming home to my mountain home in lovely Colorado and spend days in the heart of Boston... I've had the best of both worlds (just like Hannah Montana) and I really like that split. Lately I have been realizing that this will be coming to an end due to the fact that I am about to have the expectation of being a "real" adult and maintaining a job and such once I graduate (which will be happening in no time.) Leaving Colorado is a bit sad for that reason. Anyway, who knows what is going to happen. I still have a few big decisions (such as whether I want to apply to transfer to the LA campus) between me and what my future will be like. It's something to ponder if nothing else. On a different note, I do have a few things to share: one and two. I'm also not sure if I ever shared this but: This is cute. There are a lot more. Just look for NYLON TV or go to their website and look there. Finally, here is a short short from an Emerson publication Stork Magazine. It is called Spilled Milk and is by Allison Foster.

I was pretending to be spilled milk when my mom walked in.

"Anouk? What...?"

I lay there under my white towel. Spilled milk doesn't talk.

"Anouk?"

Still silent. I spread my fingers a bit, oozing.

And then my mom, instead of yelling at me to get up or feeling my forehead for a temperature, lay down beside me. She asked, "What are we doing?"

"Grab a towel," I said.

She grabbed a light pink one, formerly white but left in the load with a red t-shirt. She covered herself, and her feet stuck out but that was okay.

We lay there. Five minutes passed. I thought my milkiest thoughts, like how long had I been out? Was I close to my expiration date? I tried out a sour milk face, hidden under my towel. Then I giggled.

Mom's towel was spread out too close to mine. I rolled away a little and said, "We cant touch because we're spilled milk and if your towel touches mine it means we're mixing and you have to be strawberry milk because you're pink and strawberry milk is kind of gross. No offense."

Mom laughed, "What kind of milk are you?"

"Plain. Maybe sour. I'm trying to decide."

"Oh."

"But we have to be quiet now, because spilled milk doesn't talk." And we lay there for a long time under warm towels fresh from the dryer.