Some nights writing is just going to be like, I dunno, sexting with a hand-condom.

What’s worse is that this chapter ends in a little scene I KNOW I already pre-wrote and where is it? Gmail drafts? Some random Word doc that’s not appropriately filed? I even looked through my thousands of iPhone notes, which are mostly terrifying bits of notes from reporting and/or shopping. In which I found:

Dec 4, 2008: “‘marginal,’ ‘don’t want to litigate.’” (That is the note in its entirety, yes.)

October 24, 2008: “Willa: ‘Anyone want a beer?’ Maer: ‘Well I’ve been through this before!’”

Feb 12, 2008: “‘A great pleasure arose from seeing all those incoherent structures.’ — Smithson”

April 13, 2009: “Scottish eggs and gold-rimmed goblets. Cut deep purple cala lilies in bud vases. Photographer: ‘WHERE’D YOU GET THAT TAN JONATHAN?’ JRM kisses ladies on both cheeks and poses. His shirt is open to the navel. Photographer: ‘IT’S A DISASTER.’ ‘I mean who would mary me?’ says Jonathan Rhys Meyers. His chest is bizarrely hairless. ‘This is the money shot’ says someone. ‘Okay guys’ says JRM and makes weird praying hands gesture. ‘A truly multichannel endeavor’ says some woman (Nancy?) from Conde Nast.”

December 18, 2009: “‘If you had just let it be it would have been a game of darts and a fucking beer or two.’”