This is strange. I'm essentially about to rewrite what I wrote yesterday. Should I change things? No one would know. And I feel so different now than I did last night. So much happens every day.

I got back to Boston on Monday evening, rode the Chinatown bus. It was raining when I got in. I was wearing a Stanford t-shirt and some woman started talking to me in Harvard Square, saying she goes to Stanford Medical School. I think I was kind of cold toward her because I was walking in the rain and just wanted to catch my bus.

One of the best things I did in New York was go to the new MoMA. My favorite paintings were Cy Twombly's Quattro Stagioni (Four Seasons). Here they are, in order from Spring to Winter:









Aaagh, "Winter" is so scary and beautiful, it's my favorite. My other favorite thing was an architecture exhibit about this deserted elevated railway on the lower western edge of Manhattan that's been converted into a kind of park/walkway. It's called the High Line. Masha and I walked over to where it starts, but you can't go up there yet. I also really loved the Pissarro exhibit. I hadn't heard of Pissarro before I went, but I ended up buying a print of his for my wall.



He's great at capturing weather. Pissarro was Jewish, born and raised in the West Indies. I guess Cézanne was his protégé, but Pissarro is better.

My last few days in New York were the best. On Saturday Masha and I walked all around the city. We bought a bottle of wine at this market in Chelsea, where they also had wine tasting. We tasted this one wine and Masha asked "what would you serve this with?" and the guy said "wild boar."

Albert got in Saturday night and he, Masha and I cooked dinner in his apartment.







Um, I guess those are pretty boring pictures. "Check us out... making PASTA!!" Later that night I arm-wrestled Albert and I KICKED HIS FUCKING ASS.

One more, of us eating dinner:



I told Masha she should wear bottom eyeliner more often, it looks sexy. I love this picture of Albert.



Whew, okay. That's pretty much all of the stuff I had written last night. Honestly, it was making me really uncomfortable rewriting all that. The worst was when I remembered stuff that I had written that I thought was funny, so I would try to redo it and it would just end up sounding awkward.

Man, you know what? This whole entry for some reason is making me feel very strange. Even though now I could just start writing about whatever I want, I still feel weird. I guess I'm confronting the issue of whether this blog is a personal journal or a piece of public reading. In all honesty, what I would have liked to write about tonight was how my dad and Adam and I went to Walden Pond this afternoon, and while we were swimming over in this remote part of the pond we had this long discussion about buying and selling real estate as a way to make money. I guess there's a good living to be made in buying houses, fixing them up, and then selling them for a lot more than you paid, but the more I think about it, I'm like, man, how fucking pragmatic and soulless. No offense to anyone, but for me personally, if I was making a living buying houses and then reselling them, I'd be pretty unhappy, no matter how much money I was making. I don't know, the whole thing just creeps me out. I mean, I'm sure some people genuinely enjoy it, but it's not for me.

All right, I'm going to bed.