This morning, when my mom woke me up for work, I blearily told her I was in fact already dressed, and that my hair looked great. I was under the covers at the time. Luckily, she didn't believe me.
Kindergarteners are a trip, man. They're like almost human. They look like tiny humans, and speak English, but their world is completely different from ours. They're also the most violent group I've dealt with yet. Their culture demands sacrifices to Cookie Monster, or maybe Elmo, the Blood God.
I love love LOVE The Crimson Petal And The White. My problem with most historical writing is how sanitized it is - everything is clean and sparkly, and nobody pees or gets sick, and if they do, it's Delicate Wasting Disease, where the women are lovely and pale, and fade away tragically. Also, the writing usually sucks. But Michael Faber's writing is incredible; the whole style is so unusual, and the details are remarkable. I'm really enjoying it. I want to finish it this time. It's just such a heavy book. I can't bring it with me when I'm out and about.
I really really REALLY hope I get to work on Thursday. Because I don't want to go to my last writing class. Because I haven't done the assignment from last week. And I don't know the assignment for this week. And the class is boring and stupid, and takes forever to get to, and there are no cute guys (shallow, yes, but my commute to this goddamn class is almost five hours, and I think I deserve an attractive male to stare at for all my effort). And I'd much rather make money.
Except for this blog, I haven't been writing. At all. I don't think it's writer's block - I have two ideas for short stories, both weird and no doubt inspired by endless Borges reading - but when I sit at my computer, words fail to come. It's annoying, and depressing. So much of my inner life is based on writing, and I can't do it. I'm frustrated. And today my mother told me that she doesn't think these books are going to be The Books, but eventually I'll write a few great ones. On one hand, that's very complimentary. On the other, I want to yell and scream and insist that THESE books are going to be the first on my journey to greatness, and will shock the world with my brilliance. Then I go eat cranberry sauce sandwiches, which are delicious.
I want to go shopping. I only get paid monthly. So I HAVE money, but not really. Metaphorical money. I need books, so many books. And clothes. Lots and lots of clothes.
Career-wise, I'm thinking of education and law. Or criminology. These are the things I like, and I just have to decide which one I'm going to pursue first. As everyone keeps telling me, I'm young, and I can change careers. And judging by the increasing number of magazines and newspapers going under, journalism may not be the safest career choice.
Did you hear Russell Brand may be in the remake of Arthur? Did you hear my screams of joy and delight following this knowledge? Some remakes make Elle squeal. Most make her weep.
- LV
Kindergarteners are a trip, man. They're like almost human. They look like tiny humans, and speak English, but their world is completely different from ours. They're also the most violent group I've dealt with yet. Their culture demands sacrifices to Cookie Monster, or maybe Elmo, the Blood God.
I love love LOVE The Crimson Petal And The White. My problem with most historical writing is how sanitized it is - everything is clean and sparkly, and nobody pees or gets sick, and if they do, it's Delicate Wasting Disease, where the women are lovely and pale, and fade away tragically. Also, the writing usually sucks. But Michael Faber's writing is incredible; the whole style is so unusual, and the details are remarkable. I'm really enjoying it. I want to finish it this time. It's just such a heavy book. I can't bring it with me when I'm out and about.
I really really REALLY hope I get to work on Thursday. Because I don't want to go to my last writing class. Because I haven't done the assignment from last week. And I don't know the assignment for this week. And the class is boring and stupid, and takes forever to get to, and there are no cute guys (shallow, yes, but my commute to this goddamn class is almost five hours, and I think I deserve an attractive male to stare at for all my effort). And I'd much rather make money.
Except for this blog, I haven't been writing. At all. I don't think it's writer's block - I have two ideas for short stories, both weird and no doubt inspired by endless Borges reading - but when I sit at my computer, words fail to come. It's annoying, and depressing. So much of my inner life is based on writing, and I can't do it. I'm frustrated. And today my mother told me that she doesn't think these books are going to be The Books, but eventually I'll write a few great ones. On one hand, that's very complimentary. On the other, I want to yell and scream and insist that THESE books are going to be the first on my journey to greatness, and will shock the world with my brilliance. Then I go eat cranberry sauce sandwiches, which are delicious.
I want to go shopping. I only get paid monthly. So I HAVE money, but not really. Metaphorical money. I need books, so many books. And clothes. Lots and lots of clothes.
Career-wise, I'm thinking of education and law. Or criminology. These are the things I like, and I just have to decide which one I'm going to pursue first. As everyone keeps telling me, I'm young, and I can change careers. And judging by the increasing number of magazines and newspapers going under, journalism may not be the safest career choice.
Did you hear Russell Brand may be in the remake of Arthur? Did you hear my screams of joy and delight following this knowledge? Some remakes make Elle squeal. Most make her weep.
- LV
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