The answer, is in the screengrabs

last.fm/user/davidguest

I've created a new Last.fm page, as my previous one was corroded with all the crap I've been listening to dating back to my discovery of Rilo Kiley. Consider this a new era indeed. No but seriously. Can't believe I danced for so long in those cowboy boots last night without sawing off my feet. Or that I just trekked to the beach (was it even a beach?), even climbed a big tree, barefoot, after having consumed a pot of mussels and a bottle of wine. Or that I have three days to pack up everything in this apartment and get to Spain. Or that I just accidentally ordered a heap of 120 film instead of 135 for the third time in a row. Or that this weather is so, fucking, amazing.

End of Exam Stupor

Like this, but like drunker.

The Best Possible Thing I Could've Started My Week With

They have so many pairs of desert boots! They've even employed their own factotum temptress to clean them all with a toothbrush in the back of a truck. Do you think they're paying her? "I don't speak Reggae, but I'm pretty sure she's harping about her plight." Anyway. This is so ridiculous awesome.

[WEST NYC]

"I am fucking you, Tania, so that you'll stay fucked."

This is honestly easier and more entertaining than anything I've had the intention of posting all week. A lot is happening. We'll get to that eventually. In the meantime, life is simply one big French PSA for safe sex. Tasteful yet raunchy.

So Paige, what do you do when you're sad?

Read Lydia Davis stories.* Drink vodka. Drink vodka.

*"People did not know what she knew, that she was not really a woman but a man, often a fat man, but more often, probably, an old man. The fact that she was an old man made it hard for her to be a young woman. It was hard for her to talk to a young man, for instance, though the young man was clearly interested in her. She had to ask herself, Why is this young man flirting with this old man?" Lydia Davis, "What She Knew"

Today's "Pitcher of Mexican Drank"

Happy Cinco de Mayo everyone, and specifically to my Pueblan audience.

Credit for this shit straight up goes to Caroline Bottger's Facebook. Caroline is a third year English Literature student at The University of Edinburgh. She lives in Switzerland, enjoys being taller than her boyfriend, and doesn't really care about your health care reform.

"In the age of Pamela Anderson's ascendance, Rivers Cuomo thought it was hot that you looked like Mary Tyler Moore."

"Empathy is hard—especially, sad to say, when you are fucking someone and it's not going quite so well as you'd planned. If you add in the whole gender thing, it gets even harder. Boys and girls in America have such a sad time together. They do. And then they call each other bitches and cunts and dumb motherfuckers, assholes and alcoholics and overprivileged Ivy League elitist shits, failed writers, failed people, people with daddy issues and mommy issues and control issues and abandonment issues, just Issues, horrible Issues, Issues that cannot be forgiven; they accuse each other of crimes against God and nature and political engagement; they accuse each other of being just like their mothers (never satisfied) and their fathers (2 bold). And some of them have recording careers, so they take it public. Is that so wrong?"

Sady Doyle waxes lyrical on every girl's failed hypothetical relationship with Rivers Cuomo, The Awl

"They know I want to fuck them so bad."

Last night may have been one of the top five all time nights in Edinburgh, next to slow-dancing with Jacob Bloomfield to the Backstreet Boys at the Big Cheese on Ridhima's eighteenth birthday (preposition beatdown). Seriously though. It was all kinds of the most hilarious shit ever. Beltane festival, up on Calton hill, which quite a few of my comrades seem to, in retrospect, have found fairly anticlimactic. But I thought it was a blast. Highlights include: drunkenly standing in a long line by myself for a while, trying to find my friends in a dark sea of people, getting home somehow (See also: making pancakes while listening to Scarface, spilling a lot of things). Alright that's really all there is. I realize I've done an extremely poor job of documenting anything remotely significant. Just Chill; here are some still-lifes by Goya:

Still-Life: A Butcher's Counter, 1810-12

Three Salmon Steaks, 1808-12