I'm in art school nostalgia mode. Well, I guess nostalgia's a strong word for it. I'm writing fiction inspired by my art school experience. I was such an asshole. Art school was an asshole too, don't get me wrong. Wait, YOU DON'T CARE. Believe me, you don't really care. You'll read the story and say, "I'm not better for knowing any of that."
Another rejection today, but it was a personal rejection. I almost printed it out. It was that amazing. My first critically personal rejection. I'm taking all those words to heart. In fact, I ate some of those words and was surprised by their taste. Like a salty chocolate.
I have the broken blender standing on top of my fridge like a weird memorial. I think I should fill it with something. Potpourri? Pencil shavings? Yarn snips? Wine corks? The decorative possibilities are simultaneously endless and lame. Oh, I know, matchbooks! No, no, wait. . .miniature hotel soaps! See, the fun never stops.
I'm going to a birthday party on Monday night at this restaurant/bar that has these really great Monday night food deals. I wonder if I'm going to be the only fat ass who gets anything to eat. Yes, probably. It's going to be so amazing, you'll see. I'll have burger juice on my chin all night. And no one will say anything about it. They'll be too drunk. Don't worry, I'll be drunk too. But I won't be hungry.
It's supposed to snow again. I feel guilty when it snows, like I need to do something with what I've been given. I just discovered where the snow shovels have been hiding. They've been in the garage, duh. You can bet when it snows again, I'll be out there shoveling my ass off. My upstairs neighbor says it's cathartic. I say, "Bring it on." Yes, like that cheerleading movie. There needs to be a holiday for cheerleaders so I can feel justified in ever watching that movie again. That or Miss Watson needs to sleep over the next time she's in town. We can do a triple feature. Bring It On, Slackers, and Grind. Oh, and Detroit Rock City, you know, to leave on while we go to sleep.
Another rejection today, but it was a personal rejection. I almost printed it out. It was that amazing. My first critically personal rejection. I'm taking all those words to heart. In fact, I ate some of those words and was surprised by their taste. Like a salty chocolate.
I have the broken blender standing on top of my fridge like a weird memorial. I think I should fill it with something. Potpourri? Pencil shavings? Yarn snips? Wine corks? The decorative possibilities are simultaneously endless and lame. Oh, I know, matchbooks! No, no, wait. . .miniature hotel soaps! See, the fun never stops.
I'm going to a birthday party on Monday night at this restaurant/bar that has these really great Monday night food deals. I wonder if I'm going to be the only fat ass who gets anything to eat. Yes, probably. It's going to be so amazing, you'll see. I'll have burger juice on my chin all night. And no one will say anything about it. They'll be too drunk. Don't worry, I'll be drunk too. But I won't be hungry.
It's supposed to snow again. I feel guilty when it snows, like I need to do something with what I've been given. I just discovered where the snow shovels have been hiding. They've been in the garage, duh. You can bet when it snows again, I'll be out there shoveling my ass off. My upstairs neighbor says it's cathartic. I say, "Bring it on." Yes, like that cheerleading movie. There needs to be a holiday for cheerleaders so I can feel justified in ever watching that movie again. That or Miss Watson needs to sleep over the next time she's in town. We can do a triple feature. Bring It On, Slackers, and Grind. Oh, and Detroit Rock City, you know, to leave on while we go to sleep.