There he goes, off to write that hit song, Alone in My Principles
i am a very clever guy. i use my powers for evil, instead of good. i mean, good is soooooooooooo boring.
really, everyone is starting to look the same. before they looked the same, but in a bad way. now it might be a good way.
a few nights ago I wrote a short story, then, recently, exactly what happened in the story happened in my real life.
"who's nervous? everbody's nervous?"
"nobody's nervous."
"well, god, I am!"
when i got home last night, I read this Raymond Carver short story that was exactly like one I had written. Goddamn Raymond Carver stealing my ideas twenty years prior.
I got Caldecott fever! I don't know who is going to win it, but it really is a competition between Miss Figgeltys Fantastical Fudge Shoppe Adventure by E.B. Stowe and My Friend Carmicheal, the Dog by Bonnie Rudebegar. All my money is going on Carmicheal. I can't wait till its Newberry season!
ah, the simple joys of the secret affair! how light my heart is! how frivolous my thoughts! how pretentious my prose! Has Leonard Cohen, in his bleakness, forgotten the pleasures of a good feeling? Has the great Bob Dylan, in his cynicism, obscured the simplicity of feeling like two naughty children? Is Woody Allen the only one who can really nail the essence of this thing? No. It will be my life's work to do the same, even if that means hashing things out like a medicore drunken Socrates. Women and their daughters will pass by my step, hearing my loud musings on topics of Love and Justice and whisper "Don't mind him, dear. He think's he knows something." Would I really be any worse off than anyone?
I have begun to Feel again. I embrace cab drivers, and have a good attitude toward cigarette nightgown stalkers, but the judge and I differ on that opinion. He adjucts his monocle, and says only, Post No Bills. And I, I am quite prepared to bring you my darts and whisper in the monasteries where I'll write the hit song Along in My Principles(feat. Dion Sanders)
really, everyone is starting to look the same. before they looked the same, but in a bad way. now it might be a good way.
a few nights ago I wrote a short story, then, recently, exactly what happened in the story happened in my real life.
"who's nervous? everbody's nervous?"
"nobody's nervous."
"well, god, I am!"
when i got home last night, I read this Raymond Carver short story that was exactly like one I had written. Goddamn Raymond Carver stealing my ideas twenty years prior.
I got Caldecott fever! I don't know who is going to win it, but it really is a competition between Miss Figgeltys Fantastical Fudge Shoppe Adventure by E.B. Stowe and My Friend Carmicheal, the Dog by Bonnie Rudebegar. All my money is going on Carmicheal. I can't wait till its Newberry season!
ah, the simple joys of the secret affair! how light my heart is! how frivolous my thoughts! how pretentious my prose! Has Leonard Cohen, in his bleakness, forgotten the pleasures of a good feeling? Has the great Bob Dylan, in his cynicism, obscured the simplicity of feeling like two naughty children? Is Woody Allen the only one who can really nail the essence of this thing? No. It will be my life's work to do the same, even if that means hashing things out like a medicore drunken Socrates. Women and their daughters will pass by my step, hearing my loud musings on topics of Love and Justice and whisper "Don't mind him, dear. He think's he knows something." Would I really be any worse off than anyone?
I have begun to Feel again. I embrace cab drivers, and have a good attitude toward cigarette nightgown stalkers, but the judge and I differ on that opinion. He adjucts his monocle, and says only, Post No Bills. And I, I am quite prepared to bring you my darts and whisper in the monasteries where I'll write the hit song Along in My Principles(feat. Dion Sanders)