I'll Get Back To This Later
I'm getting progressivally more drunk as the night goes on because I decided to celebrate Shannon's twenty-first birthday that will occur in two and a half hours.
I will not be with my friend, but I will damn well be with her in spirit. The intoxicated spirit.
I tried writing the other day and completely froze. I believe I got about three sentences before I gave up. Ever since I left Emerson I haven't been able to write, or anything I do write (even letters and role playing) I am convinced it could be better. Much much better. I'm going to take a psychological stab at this, but I believe it has something to do with leaving Emerson and parting with the major I had always thought I was going to get. I wanted to be a writer for so long and now that I've (given up? refused? run away from?) done with it educationally I feel like I need to give it up completely. Which, of course, is complete bullshit.
I guess I'm afraid. Afraid that I will fall in love with writing again. Emerson had killed that romance, and maybe now with other romances flittering around I might just fall in love again. It wouldn't be very hard to do. David Ford had recommended some books to me and after reading the first paragraph of Lolita I had forgotten why I had given up on writing. What a beautiful book!
David Ford, of course, may add to my confusion. The man is intelligent. Smart as hell. Funny. Fun. And amazingly in synch with people's feelings. I could just listen to him speak all day long. Wouldn't matter what he was talking about, though I love listening him speak about movies. He is so passionate that sometimes I just want to be in his head, feel what he feels. Too fucking bad that I'm just some guinea pig he gets to experiment on. I would love to kiss those lips, but he would rather mold me into some sort mini-him. Changing the world one person at a time. And I fucking hate him for it.
Kevin has left Borders. I can't imagine the store without him and I guess I'm going to have to tomorrow at eleven. How many people does that leave? They are all escaping in droves. And I will stay put. Not becuase the money is good, because it's not. Not because the work is stress-free, because it's not. But because I just love it in that bookstore. It looks like hell and it's falling apart rapidly, but it's still mine. I feel like in some sort of storybook way I'm suppose to save it. Stoney did start training me in the cafe, but only three hours were accomplished. I know how to make a latte! You don't know how exciting that was for me, haha.
Ocean City was fun. I got burned and tanned, but as I told Erica, I'm still pale as fuck. Oh well.
Thirty minutes until Shannon's birthday!
There is a spider hanging delicately in the corner directly next to my desk. I have postponed killing him because I don't want to use a tissue because its quite ugly. I don't want to use a shoe because I'm sure it's body will make a smudge on my wall. OH NO ITS MOVING. FUCK, it had been still for HOURS and now it decides to move closer to me. Okay, time for it to die.
Didn't create such a smudge as I expected.
Oh, got to call Shannon!
Damn, voicemail.
I will not be with my friend, but I will damn well be with her in spirit. The intoxicated spirit.
I tried writing the other day and completely froze. I believe I got about three sentences before I gave up. Ever since I left Emerson I haven't been able to write, or anything I do write (even letters and role playing) I am convinced it could be better. Much much better. I'm going to take a psychological stab at this, but I believe it has something to do with leaving Emerson and parting with the major I had always thought I was going to get. I wanted to be a writer for so long and now that I've (given up? refused? run away from?) done with it educationally I feel like I need to give it up completely. Which, of course, is complete bullshit.
I guess I'm afraid. Afraid that I will fall in love with writing again. Emerson had killed that romance, and maybe now with other romances flittering around I might just fall in love again. It wouldn't be very hard to do. David Ford had recommended some books to me and after reading the first paragraph of Lolita I had forgotten why I had given up on writing. What a beautiful book!
David Ford, of course, may add to my confusion. The man is intelligent. Smart as hell. Funny. Fun. And amazingly in synch with people's feelings. I could just listen to him speak all day long. Wouldn't matter what he was talking about, though I love listening him speak about movies. He is so passionate that sometimes I just want to be in his head, feel what he feels. Too fucking bad that I'm just some guinea pig he gets to experiment on. I would love to kiss those lips, but he would rather mold me into some sort mini-him. Changing the world one person at a time. And I fucking hate him for it.
Kevin has left Borders. I can't imagine the store without him and I guess I'm going to have to tomorrow at eleven. How many people does that leave? They are all escaping in droves. And I will stay put. Not becuase the money is good, because it's not. Not because the work is stress-free, because it's not. But because I just love it in that bookstore. It looks like hell and it's falling apart rapidly, but it's still mine. I feel like in some sort of storybook way I'm suppose to save it. Stoney did start training me in the cafe, but only three hours were accomplished. I know how to make a latte! You don't know how exciting that was for me, haha.
Ocean City was fun. I got burned and tanned, but as I told Erica, I'm still pale as fuck. Oh well.
Thirty minutes until Shannon's birthday!
There is a spider hanging delicately in the corner directly next to my desk. I have postponed killing him because I don't want to use a tissue because its quite ugly. I don't want to use a shoe because I'm sure it's body will make a smudge on my wall. OH NO ITS MOVING. FUCK, it had been still for HOURS and now it decides to move closer to me. Okay, time for it to die.
Didn't create such a smudge as I expected.
Oh, got to call Shannon!
Damn, voicemail.