I was reading some porn just now. Home decorator porn. Specifically, the fall Pottery Barn catalog. I can't get enough of it. I lap up all the pretty pictures, in training for the day--distant, dappled, and imaginary as a Tolkien Shire--when I'm able to afford an $849 armchair with P.B. Basic striped slipcovers. Plus the matching sofa and those cute frosted lamps and the jute rug, and of course the magnetic memo board (only $79), which is designed to bear a palimpsest of profound but fleeting messages in which we can read the ephemeral nature of our existence, fleeting bites of life also to be found in the pears, artistically tumbled, that fill the Parisian bell jar on our coffee table, watched over by the decorator cat.
I was born to be rich. This is a certainty I've never outgrown. Employers and stock markets don't yet seem to agree with my destiny, though.
You can *so* tell I'm at that honeymoon stage with LJ, where any excuse to post will do. Don't worry. It'll wear off.