burn it backwards
Lately I've had lots of words floating around in my brain, begging to be plucked out typed out and delivered. Then I remember that I resolutely refuse to be a writer. I refuse to write things that I'm ashamed of. Which, currently, is everything. I'm not a writer, and I'm not quite ready to admit it.
Adam's play deserved mad props up in here. I blushed at a few lines, got choked up at a few. I wish I had money for then next one, and the next one. I would love to drink pretentious coffee (Joyce, Kafka, Vonnegut, Morrison) and watch, but I can't take the caffeine. So I drink Orange Fountains and snicker at the Irish accents and the possibility of the stage beer being real.
I'm not a photographer either. Nor am I an actor, an academic, a wit, a beauty, a stoner. I paint, drink tea, get scared and smoke camels. I wear other people's clothes and talk about who's dating who's annoying who's cheating on who I love. I get the feeling that it's time to do something with my life, or at least my homework.
It's snowing.
Adam's play deserved mad props up in here. I blushed at a few lines, got choked up at a few. I wish I had money for then next one, and the next one. I would love to drink pretentious coffee (Joyce, Kafka, Vonnegut, Morrison) and watch, but I can't take the caffeine. So I drink Orange Fountains and snicker at the Irish accents and the possibility of the stage beer being real.
I'm not a photographer either. Nor am I an actor, an academic, a wit, a beauty, a stoner. I paint, drink tea, get scared and smoke camels. I wear other people's clothes and talk about who's dating who's annoying who's cheating on who I love. I get the feeling that it's time to do something with my life, or at least my homework.
It's snowing.