So I said, Wonderful, if you insist.
Here I am, forcing myself to write because Alex said I should. Not that I’m a particular fan of following Alex’s advice---it’s usually deluded by his sense of grandeur--- but he did mention he could possible, if not unlikely, hand over
some of my crap to Billy Collins for review.
I’ve heard stories of how critical Collins has been of his students’ writing, and the thought of his genius third judging my work is terrifying and exciting at the same time.
I am officially old enough to use crystal steam ware; or at least that’s the excuse my mum used in order to splurge on a nice set of glasses. I don’t blame her though, they’re pretty amazing.
AND I’ve broken only one out of the dozen set so far. She is certainly proud.
What? I didn’t do it on purpose. I was just washing the dishes.
Sigh. Why does it always feel as though my ipod mind-rapes me?
I found the old story…again.
Not that it mysteriously opened up on my computer screen while I vacantly stared at my documents lists. I had been in search of some inspiration---any tiny bit of spark--- and I figured, where better to start then the fiction that consumed my entire summer and senior year of high school? Why not look back at the train wreck that is teen angst and self-loathing condensed into five awful chapters of drabble?
Holy flippin’ flubber nuggets, I really miss my Beta reader right now. How he managed to get five chapters out of me, is a complete and utter mystery.
And to make matters worse, I’m listening to ‘Run’ by Snow Patrol and it’s making me feel nostalgic and miserable.
To think I might not see those eyes
Makes it so hard not to cry
And as we say our long goodbyes
I nearly do
A man is called a traitor,
A rich man is a thief
Is one a Crusader
Or ruthless invader?
It’s all in which label
Is able to persist
Irony is my best friend and worst enemy. It makes me life so much more interesting and tolerable, to be quite honest.
It also makes me look like a total idiot most of the time.
What’s the trouble with poetry?
It’s that people only consider a poet successful when he has music along with his meter.
Well, fuck that. I’m a minimalist. Strip the song of all beats and melody and leave me with the words. I’ll find my way out of the magic you spun with a matchbox in hand.
Why is it that no matter what elementary school you go to, the hallways will always smell of crayons and wet paint?
The most poetic thing I’ve written lately is a post-it note to my imaginary kitten, reminding him to use the litter box or at least go in my brother’s room.
So I’ve been trying to stick to my resolves as of late. In case I haven’t mentioned them, they are to give up politics, self-absorption, boys, penguins, and cupcakes (though, I haven’t really had a cupcake in ages).
I’ve been going to the gym, trying to get fit---and by fit, I mean “stop being a fat ass and put down that cookie.”
It’s not that bad, having to walk the half mile from parking garage A to the Rec. center and then climbing the monolith of stairs to actually get into the building.
The only problem is that fate finds my little attempts amusing.
There is this kid from my class who skateboards past me with a freakin’ ice cream cone every single day.
Damn you. Why do you eat so much ice cream?!?
It makes my grape fruit look pretty pathetic. ><
Well, I think that’s enough rambling for today.
P.S. I put up a UCF flag on my wall today. I feel like I sold my soul to fill the void of the empty cream-colored space.