This weekend I told Nichole that Steve Buscemi is sort of my dream man. I’ve thought about it since and maybe it’s a bit too conventional-masked-as-contrarian? Can I still love Steve Buscemi? Does loving him just paint me as some cheesy Enid archetype, my casual Bob Skeetes fantasies later manifesting themselves in Buscemi’s more dimensional Seymour? Am I just some Daniel Clowes pastiche of a woman-girl?
Anyway, I had a major breakdown over it. Oh!–not the Steve Buscemi shame crush–the fact that I’m packing away three boxes of comic books without giving each volume a proper goodbye read. Thankfully, I can actually afford USPS Media Mail, even if it means two weeks until Eightball.
Tags: comics, moving, weird literary existential crises
