So much staying alive and lovelessness.
Current Song: Silverchair -- Israel's Son.
Current Mood: Saturated by idiocy.
Captain apathy is back, Jack, and ready to grab life by the balls with all-new self-loathing literary smut. Which must be great news to my 1.5 readers.
I say 1.5 because one of them can only read the swear words I throw in, usually just for his benefit.
So I hate Tuesdays. Whether it's the cheap, ego-stroking bullshit of Neuropsychology at ten or the microscopic perch intestinal matter still caked on my hands from bio lab at eleven-thirty -- either way the result is a Marc as soaked in desperation as he is in impotent rage. Or it could be the cat wripping all my shite to pieces no more than ten feet away. It could be that.
Yeah but I'm not seriously all that pissed off. Pretty slap-happy -- most likely due to the ridiculous influx of fine pie or the mental image of Terri-Lynn trapping my cat in her room, forcing it to hang out with her because it's the only living creature so far affording her any semblance of charity just by staying there. Then I imagine her giving my cat palsy.
He wouldn't run or play anymore -- just trip over his legs and tail and forget to breathe.
So the book is still ongoing. I'm writing up a query letter so I can try to find a publishing agent, so we can dick around together looking for a publisher, so we can all dick around together finalizing everything, then dick around finding a printing place. Nothing but dick in this whole writing process, I don't know why they didn't tell me that in highschool. It's inspired me to change the title from "Fantasies of Rape and Omnipotence" to "Three-Inch Bratwurst: Small Words From a Small Man." But in all seriousness I'm improv'ing the proposal as we (I) speak (type). Anybody want to read it? It's not even really a proposal, just a small piece of writing where I idly fantasy about a life that doesn't so closely resemble one where I'm listening to half-wits in neuropsych recycling everybody's answers just to sound like they're contributing or tossing salads (to copulate with) at a family restaurant.
Because sometimes a man just needs more. Though we all know the only thing this proposal will resemble is, in the end, jizz in the vague shape of a middle finger on an 8 1/2 x 11 piece of paper with no return address on it.
153 Weber St, Waterloo.
/Marc
"The artist is necessarily estranged from 'the actual,' condemned to the 'eternal unreality' and falsity of his innermost existence, forbidden 'actually to be' and incapable of an independent, courageous stand in relation to values, and hence of creating them."
--Simon May.
Current Mood: Saturated by idiocy.
Captain apathy is back, Jack, and ready to grab life by the balls with all-new self-loathing literary smut. Which must be great news to my 1.5 readers.
I say 1.5 because one of them can only read the swear words I throw in, usually just for his benefit.
So I hate Tuesdays. Whether it's the cheap, ego-stroking bullshit of Neuropsychology at ten or the microscopic perch intestinal matter still caked on my hands from bio lab at eleven-thirty -- either way the result is a Marc as soaked in desperation as he is in impotent rage. Or it could be the cat wripping all my shite to pieces no more than ten feet away. It could be that.
Yeah but I'm not seriously all that pissed off. Pretty slap-happy -- most likely due to the ridiculous influx of fine pie or the mental image of Terri-Lynn trapping my cat in her room, forcing it to hang out with her because it's the only living creature so far affording her any semblance of charity just by staying there. Then I imagine her giving my cat palsy.
He wouldn't run or play anymore -- just trip over his legs and tail and forget to breathe.
So the book is still ongoing. I'm writing up a query letter so I can try to find a publishing agent, so we can dick around together looking for a publisher, so we can all dick around together finalizing everything, then dick around finding a printing place. Nothing but dick in this whole writing process, I don't know why they didn't tell me that in highschool. It's inspired me to change the title from "Fantasies of Rape and Omnipotence" to "Three-Inch Bratwurst: Small Words From a Small Man." But in all seriousness I'm improv'ing the proposal as we (I) speak (type). Anybody want to read it? It's not even really a proposal, just a small piece of writing where I idly fantasy about a life that doesn't so closely resemble one where I'm listening to half-wits in neuropsych recycling everybody's answers just to sound like they're contributing or tossing salads (to copulate with) at a family restaurant.
Because sometimes a man just needs more. Though we all know the only thing this proposal will resemble is, in the end, jizz in the vague shape of a middle finger on an 8 1/2 x 11 piece of paper with no return address on it.
153 Weber St, Waterloo.
/Marc
"The artist is necessarily estranged from 'the actual,' condemned to the 'eternal unreality' and falsity of his innermost existence, forbidden 'actually to be' and incapable of an independent, courageous stand in relation to values, and hence of creating them."
--Simon May.