Hell, Styx, Hades -- Either way I'm sure I'll see you there.
Current Song: The Evens -- Around the Corner.
Current Mood: Stifled by fear-induced stupidity.
Current Book: A Language Older Than Words, Derrick Jensen.
In between sips of jager my boss tells me that Rock'N'Roll doesn't really exist. It's all a myth. I tell him he might have a deeply-rooted substance problem for which professional help may be needed, and -- he tells me I'm fired, again.
Looks like Fred is moving out in a .week. so I'll have to transfer everything over to my name. This is great, because the Bell internet here is a complete bag of douche and nothing will ever again stop me from sexually harassing my CP roommate with her sexy one-legged shuffle.
Right, so I'm finally published. Or I .will. be in the July issue of Truth Magazine in like ten days. So what if it's not really an established literary publication, or just an E-magazine, or sounds more like a fundamentalist mormon rhetoric mill than a magazine. So what, it's a publication that'll allow me to forever say to agents, "I've been previously published". It's the difference between walking into a job interview with your grade twelve or a picture of several ducks that you'd recently printed off the internet. I will now be the man with the graduate papers, in that scenario.
www.thetruthmagazine.com/fiction1 is where the link will be. You don't really have to go there yet, because it's just some inane jargon about India and madness right now, but soon it'll be changed to my piece. Read it, send them an email telling them it's the golden literary calf they've been waiting for, and email me under a fake name to tell me that you want to be some sort of literary groupie for my novel. Do it.
All I can hear is shouting in french from the kitchen while Fred converses with the only friend that seems to frequent our apartment. They're talking about bread-baking and fancy flea-spraying techniques, I assume, because this guy's another pretty boy with slick culinary skills. He told me last week I was cooking my primavera wrong -- so I told him he was wearing his ascot askew. Then laughed, stopped abruptly, and cooked up some damn good pasta.
Had a couple of slick days in the meantime. Hell of a party at Desiree's and a rowdy, drunken Stanley Cup night that left work horribly neglected the next day and my glasses hopelessly mangled. If you're wondering where the hell I went, Morty's wouldn't accept my tattered license so I had to run home for my goddam .passport., then drank with a bunch of strangers sitting at the bar. Right, my glasses. How do you tear not just an arm off, but the connecting link holding the lens in? I don't know. You drink, I guess.
Stevo 2.0's going-away party tonight, which assures not so much a night of drunken debauchery but a heist of chronic so ample as to make even a British Columbian green in the face. You know it, we'll miss you.
/Marc.
"Question Christianity, damned heathen. Question Capitalism, pinko liberal. Question democracy, ungrateful wretch. Question science...just plain stupid." --Derrick Jensen.
"If none of the eighty tons of fish could be converted to cash, no sane people would ever want to kill so many, which is itself powerful support for the thesis that our economic system makes us crazy." -- Derrick Jensen.
Current Mood: Stifled by fear-induced stupidity.
Current Book: A Language Older Than Words, Derrick Jensen.
In between sips of jager my boss tells me that Rock'N'Roll doesn't really exist. It's all a myth. I tell him he might have a deeply-rooted substance problem for which professional help may be needed, and -- he tells me I'm fired, again.
Looks like Fred is moving out in a .week. so I'll have to transfer everything over to my name. This is great, because the Bell internet here is a complete bag of douche and nothing will ever again stop me from sexually harassing my CP roommate with her sexy one-legged shuffle.
Right, so I'm finally published. Or I .will. be in the July issue of Truth Magazine in like ten days. So what if it's not really an established literary publication, or just an E-magazine, or sounds more like a fundamentalist mormon rhetoric mill than a magazine. So what, it's a publication that'll allow me to forever say to agents, "I've been previously published". It's the difference between walking into a job interview with your grade twelve or a picture of several ducks that you'd recently printed off the internet. I will now be the man with the graduate papers, in that scenario.
www.thetruthmagazine.com/fiction1 is where the link will be. You don't really have to go there yet, because it's just some inane jargon about India and madness right now, but soon it'll be changed to my piece. Read it, send them an email telling them it's the golden literary calf they've been waiting for, and email me under a fake name to tell me that you want to be some sort of literary groupie for my novel. Do it.
All I can hear is shouting in french from the kitchen while Fred converses with the only friend that seems to frequent our apartment. They're talking about bread-baking and fancy flea-spraying techniques, I assume, because this guy's another pretty boy with slick culinary skills. He told me last week I was cooking my primavera wrong -- so I told him he was wearing his ascot askew. Then laughed, stopped abruptly, and cooked up some damn good pasta.
Had a couple of slick days in the meantime. Hell of a party at Desiree's and a rowdy, drunken Stanley Cup night that left work horribly neglected the next day and my glasses hopelessly mangled. If you're wondering where the hell I went, Morty's wouldn't accept my tattered license so I had to run home for my goddam .passport., then drank with a bunch of strangers sitting at the bar. Right, my glasses. How do you tear not just an arm off, but the connecting link holding the lens in? I don't know. You drink, I guess.
Stevo 2.0's going-away party tonight, which assures not so much a night of drunken debauchery but a heist of chronic so ample as to make even a British Columbian green in the face. You know it, we'll miss you.
/Marc.
"Question Christianity, damned heathen. Question Capitalism, pinko liberal. Question democracy, ungrateful wretch. Question science...just plain stupid." --Derrick Jensen.
"If none of the eighty tons of fish could be converted to cash, no sane people would ever want to kill so many, which is itself powerful support for the thesis that our economic system makes us crazy." -- Derrick Jensen.