Jul 20, 2010 22:36
sometimes i come back to this little whatever and find i had, in a moment of rage, raged about something that i can't particularly remember:
it's going to be a little awkward when i call you out . kid, you're dealing with the best of liars and the finest of bridge burners. don't think i haven't played that game.
I think I don't do internet fights very well. I lose steam after, what? three lines? Maybe I'll use it for something else...some other partial story or poem or essay that I also cannot finish. I put too much energy into the wrong things. And then I bore myself with the details.
Currently reading On Beauty by Zadie Smith. I had started White Teeth, but had to turn it in because it was due and not under my library card. It wasn't there when I went back, so I picked this one up. It's due tomorrow and I"m only maybe 80 pages in on 450 total. I can't finish a damn thing right now. I know, renew, renew. And I am. It feels like defeat. I've had this for 3 weeks, and barely gotten into it. I feel ashamed. More more. Something along the lines of what was that college education good for if you can't hold an intelligent conversation? It doesn't matter that no one's around to listen (I see that you're getting bored with this suggestion that you read). More more. More more.
Currently hung up on Stephen Dobyns "How to Like It" and "Oatmeal Deluxe". Just a lost cause and a hopeless romantic. Who taught you how to write? Don't you know about verbs and subjects; complete sentences? Finish a full damn thought. There's no room for this sense of romanticism. No one believes in that anymore, you're just going to get run over, runaround, heartbroken (broken more, i guess, smaller the pieces, the harder to glue together). They say quitters never lose, but sometimes, you have to cut your losses. Maybe I shouldn't make a gambling reference when I have a bad record at the track, a losing streak, but I'm going to pull out, just one more. one more. more.
I'm growing up to be Bukowski without the misogyny.