Nothing Much
I have moved out of my parent's metaphorical basement and now live in Edgewater, which is cause for a celebration that I don't have the energy to put on because I spent ALL FUCKING YESTERDAY IN CLOSE PROXIMITY TO OR ON AIRPLANES. Maybe later. The place has a deck with a killer view. I have a cat now--Morrigan, Goddess of Death, whom I did not name and generally refer to as "Gordita", because she is. There are hardwood floors, a big full-length mirror, and no cockroaches, so I am counting this as a success.
Harry Potterfest blah blah I don't care. The magnitude of my apathy has surprised even myself. I think I spent all my dorkish enthusiasm on the Golden Compass movie and essays by Ursula LeGuin, who is 100x smarter than I will ever be. She makes me want to write things about warrior princesses who are through being caricatures of Third-Wave feminism as filtered through the adolescent male psyche, because inner strength is more interesting than outer strength, and metal bustiers pinch.
WARNING PERSONAL ITEMS OF PERSONAL NATURE BY WHICH I MEAN WHINING...
follows this announcement.
This love business is creeping me out, "me" being the sort of person with an imagination. It is very difficult to turn off, and I am therefore caught up in helpless extrapolation about what will happen when she decides she doesn't want me anymore. I feel like I could spend the rest of my life with her (which, I have been led to believe, is a common symptom of being twenty-two and in love). So I'm not sure which is more frightening: hoping it will last and finding it doesn't, or assuming it won't and being proven correct.
This is why artists are so annoying to date. Save yourself the trouble and DON'T DO IT.
Harry Potterfest blah blah I don't care. The magnitude of my apathy has surprised even myself. I think I spent all my dorkish enthusiasm on the Golden Compass movie and essays by Ursula LeGuin, who is 100x smarter than I will ever be. She makes me want to write things about warrior princesses who are through being caricatures of Third-Wave feminism as filtered through the adolescent male psyche, because inner strength is more interesting than outer strength, and metal bustiers pinch.
WARNING PERSONAL ITEMS OF PERSONAL NATURE BY WHICH I MEAN WHINING...
follows this announcement.
This love business is creeping me out, "me" being the sort of person with an imagination. It is very difficult to turn off, and I am therefore caught up in helpless extrapolation about what will happen when she decides she doesn't want me anymore. I feel like I could spend the rest of my life with her (which, I have been led to believe, is a common symptom of being twenty-two and in love). So I'm not sure which is more frightening: hoping it will last and finding it doesn't, or assuming it won't and being proven correct.
This is why artists are so annoying to date. Save yourself the trouble and DON'T DO IT.