this is stupid
Why in the hell am I writing a livejournal? Because I have an article due and I can't figure out how to write it.
So I'll write in here to get things going.
My feet are hot so I'll take my socks off, but then my bare feet will get cold in about five minutes. There's no inbetween. Aren't you glad I'm not going to draw a parallel from the high and low temperature of my feet to the high and low emotions of life? (Life is like my feet- sometimes you're hot and sometimes you're cold, there's no happy medium.) Man, I hate it when people do that shit, unless they do it well.
I had to write a story about my internship experience for the HSPA Publisher publication the other day and try to do that. You know, take an anecdote from one obscure, mundane Wednesday and turn it into a metaphor for life as a journalist. I suck real bad at doing that. If I attempted to do that, mine would be totally off base and not have a resounding theme of "a lesson learned." It would go something like this: "I remember one Tuesday, I was walking down to the prosecutor's office to pick up an affidavit for a routine meth lab bust. As I was walking, some homeless man came up to me and asked for a hammer. I, of course, had one in my bag next to my tape recorder and cigarettes. So I handed him the hammer. He then stared at me with his sunken grey eyes, and through those eyes of stone I saw a man who was homeless, broken, battered and desperate. Desperate for shelter. Desperate for love. Desperate for a clean nose- just like any other journalist I know. We exchanged pleasantries, I gave him a smile and nod of the head, and I turned and walked away knowing that this is what journalism is about- making connections. Later that day I heard he killed a guy with the hammer. I guess the old journalism addage proved to be true: Never give a hobo a hammer."
People hold journalists in a lesser regard than they do lawyers. It's true. Just below lawyers and just above the cast of The Surreal Life II. It's a comfortable spot. I guess I was just born to be hated. I'm also guessing that's the title of about twenty rap songs. Who knows how many rap lyrics? Mmmm.... I do love rap.
We have a tall, skinny vase sitting on our shot glass/alcohol shelf in the living room. It could hold about seven shots. Someone will try to use it soon.
Yahtzee!
I just wondered why my hand smells of waffles. But then I remembered it's because I'm slow and can't put a lid on coffee properly. Having hot coffee splash all over your hand hurts, suprisingly. In other suprising news, coffee mixed with hands smells like waffles.
Speaking of hands, the Wendy's drive through lady is missing half of her index finger. I find it very fitting, and I can't describe how pleased I am by the situation. Everytime I go through the drive through and I see four and half fingers wrapped around my bag of Combo #6, I am content with the world. http://urbanlegends.about.com/b/a/156338.htm
So I'll write in here to get things going.
My feet are hot so I'll take my socks off, but then my bare feet will get cold in about five minutes. There's no inbetween. Aren't you glad I'm not going to draw a parallel from the high and low temperature of my feet to the high and low emotions of life? (Life is like my feet- sometimes you're hot and sometimes you're cold, there's no happy medium.) Man, I hate it when people do that shit, unless they do it well.
I had to write a story about my internship experience for the HSPA Publisher publication the other day and try to do that. You know, take an anecdote from one obscure, mundane Wednesday and turn it into a metaphor for life as a journalist. I suck real bad at doing that. If I attempted to do that, mine would be totally off base and not have a resounding theme of "a lesson learned." It would go something like this: "I remember one Tuesday, I was walking down to the prosecutor's office to pick up an affidavit for a routine meth lab bust. As I was walking, some homeless man came up to me and asked for a hammer. I, of course, had one in my bag next to my tape recorder and cigarettes. So I handed him the hammer. He then stared at me with his sunken grey eyes, and through those eyes of stone I saw a man who was homeless, broken, battered and desperate. Desperate for shelter. Desperate for love. Desperate for a clean nose- just like any other journalist I know. We exchanged pleasantries, I gave him a smile and nod of the head, and I turned and walked away knowing that this is what journalism is about- making connections. Later that day I heard he killed a guy with the hammer. I guess the old journalism addage proved to be true: Never give a hobo a hammer."
People hold journalists in a lesser regard than they do lawyers. It's true. Just below lawyers and just above the cast of The Surreal Life II. It's a comfortable spot. I guess I was just born to be hated. I'm also guessing that's the title of about twenty rap songs. Who knows how many rap lyrics? Mmmm.... I do love rap.
We have a tall, skinny vase sitting on our shot glass/alcohol shelf in the living room. It could hold about seven shots. Someone will try to use it soon.
Yahtzee!
I just wondered why my hand smells of waffles. But then I remembered it's because I'm slow and can't put a lid on coffee properly. Having hot coffee splash all over your hand hurts, suprisingly. In other suprising news, coffee mixed with hands smells like waffles.
Speaking of hands, the Wendy's drive through lady is missing half of her index finger. I find it very fitting, and I can't describe how pleased I am by the situation. Everytime I go through the drive through and I see four and half fingers wrapped around my bag of Combo #6, I am content with the world. http://urbanlegends.about.com/b/a/156338.htm