Moving apartment to apartment in Manhattan was a hop, skip and jump. Granted too embarrassed to have men load my twenty years of junk into their van, I cordially requested that I load 129 cookbooks into luggage, carry China that served all of WWII down seven flights of stairs, balance boxes of polaroids and photographs on top of my soft skull and drag trash bags full of magazines, ziplocks stuffed with receipts from dinner dates, plane tickets to remind me of what ‘we’ called The Honeymoon through Thompkin Square. But, as I said, that was a hop, a skip and a jump from the front entrance of the park to the tail end. My move to San Francisco is no such ideation.

Before I left nothing behind sans a puzzle cover transformed into wall art and (well, this was hard) 347 bottles of wine and champagne dusted by prints of first love. Yesterday and today I have been slowly, nostalgically pulling newspaper clippings out of trunks, saved fortunes tucked inside stacked Russian Dolls and carefully ripping photography from ceiling high W magazines. This venture is painfully illuminating. Catching sight of my smeared inked face reminds me of working at The Weinstein Company, clippling filing press: a newbe caricature.

But enough is enough. I am making every effort to leave behind. Yes to leave behind. I am organizing clippings and tossing My Little Ponies into storage. And hardest of all I am trying to seize down the library I have acquired here in Manhattan. Oh how I will miss the street venders that told me buy it, so some day you shall read it.

Then there was Karl Lagerfeld who said one thing irrelevant, one thing to take away:

Lindsay Lohan is very touching as a person. She behaves like an over-grown-up person, and that’s what I like about her. It’s like she’s 45, but in fact, she’s 20.

(enough with the likes)

(we all can pay to be better at self-edit)

I may be a cartoon, but I’m a cartoon on purpose. I have no ego at all. I laugh at myself.

Moving apartment to apartment in Manhattan was a hop, skip and jump. Granted too embarrassed to have men load my twenty years of junk into their van, I cordially requested that I load 129 cookbooks into luggage, carry China that served all of WWII down seven flights of stairs, balance boxes of polaroids and photographs on top of my soft skull and drag trash bags full of magazines, ziplocks stuffed with receipts from dinner dates, plane tickets to remind me of what ‘we’ called The Honeymoon through Thompkin Square. But, as I said, that was a hop, a skip and a jump from the front entrance of the park to the tail end. My move to San Francisco is no such ideation.

Before I left nothing behind sans a puzzle cover transformed into wall art and (well, this was hard) 347 bottles of wine and champagne dusted by prints of first love. Yesterday and today I have been slowly, nostalgically pulling newspaper clippings out of trunks, saved fortunes tucked inside stacked Russian Dolls and carefully ripping photography from ceiling high W magazines. This venture is painfully illuminating. Catching sight of my smeared inked face reminds me of working at The Weinstein Company, clippling filing press: a newbe caricature.

But enough is enough. I am making every effort to leave behind. Yes to leave behind. I am organizing clippings and tossing My Little Ponies into storage. And hardest of all I am trying to seize down the library I have acquired here in Manhattan. Oh how I will miss the street venders that told me buy it, so some day you shall read it.

Then there was Karl Lagerfeld who said one thing irrelevant, one thing to take away:

Lindsay Lohan is very touching as a person. She behaves like an over-grown-up person, and that’s what I like about her. It’s like she’s 45, but in fact, she’s 20.

(enough with the likes)

(we all can pay to be better at self-edit)

I may be a cartoon, but I’m a cartoon on purpose. I have no ego at all. I laugh at myself.