The yawning stretch of summer made me anxious, so I returned to old loves and bad habits. I drank obscene amounts of coffee and kept irregular sleep patterns—too much or not enough, usually at the wrong time of day. Soothing my nerves meant consuming Appalachian murder ballads and spacey electronica, “true” ghost stories, murder mysteries, and sexytime TV. I read gritty, interesting (as well as ho-hum and silly) nonfiction essays/memoirs, graphic novels, and short stories. I forgot nearly everything I learned in guitar class last spring, but I sang to myself more often while I played air-guitar, my heart twisting in my throat. I also came up with at least three top-secret, totally legit band names, despite the fact that I haven’t touched a string since May.

Early on, an intense affair with David Foster Wallace’s  A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again: Essays and Arguments made me woozy with wordlust and repent my sins (namely, tasteless suicide jokes and footnote-bashing). In particular, D.F.W.’s essay detailing the Illinois State Fair was masterful—all meat, no filler, just clean prose with exquisite details and a wicked sense of humor. It became painful to so fiercely enjoy his work, posthumously—it was the sort of sickness that makes you keep plucking at a splinter in your thumb, feeling a swoop in your stomach but unable to stop. David Foster Wallace: better than splinters.

I devoured two of Cheryl Strayed’s gorgeous books, woodchipper-style. Tiny Beautiful Things: Advice on Love and Life from Dear Sugar made me want to play Gary Jules’ cover of “Mad World” on repeat, mostly so I could feel productive while being all torn up and weepy. Ditto for Strayed’s brutally honest memoir, Wild: From Lost to Found on the Pacific Crest Trail, except that Rufus Wainwright’s cover of “Hallelujah” seemed more applicable (sins, redemptions, a quest for peace, etc.).

I also revisited Chuck Klosterman’s Killing Yourself to Live: 85% of a True Story, a travel narrative that manages to combine sex (or love, whatever), the death sites of rock stars, and some interesting sidebar conversations with people he met along the way. It seemed natural to follow this up with Steve Almond’s Rock and Roll Will Save Your Life: A Book by and for the Fanatics Among Us.

In between there were stacks of books that I read through or just skimmed for pleasure, on various subjects—composting, coal mining, a cultural history of the rabies virus, memoirs.

To calm myself, I listened to beloved tracks—albums like Moby’s Play, Neko Case’s Canadian Amp (especially “Poor Ellen Smith,” since it falls in the murder ballad category), and a new favorite, Of Monsters and Men’s My Head is an Animal. I also zoned out to Hearts of Space radio while I work. It sounds like a cross between moody driving music and a meditative yoga workout mixtape.

I finally became acquainted with the weirdos of Twin Peaks, which was oddly enjoyable. It was apparently a summer to forgive unrealistic dialogue and improbable scenes, because I also enjoyed the 1994 cult classic The Crow. I needed clunky diversion this summer. This lead to the late-night guilty pleasure of watching the trashy Deadly Women and the slightly more sophisticated Paranormal Witness. I’m still catching up on last season’s Louie and Mad Men. I’m so disappointed in a certain character right now.

Favorite new cocktail: Dark and Stormy (ginger beer makes it classy)

Favorite random sandwich: Brie, honey, blackberries