February 2011
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I feel like an awful thought-deficient girl in a super postmodern short story written by some New York writer who wears skinny jeans, a story where the main character (male, wears skinny jeans) observes a girl (me) and hates her because she watches Glee and doesn’t “get” Led Zeppelin.
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At Starbucks (the one off the bypass where all the Koreans hang out, here because when I go to the one downtown I feel ostracised, I can’t find the one by Kroger and the other one is in a poor neighbourhood) writing the Great American Science Fiction Novel (hereon to be referred to as GASFN, pronounce as you will) and preparing myself for ICE! TORNADOES! SNOW! and, of course I can’t...
I just spelled “educated” as “edjucated”.
:(
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January 2011
pork2k:
Albert Einstein explains his famous...
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Great American Science Fiction Novelist (a postmodern, American, equally-as-obese Douglas Adams)
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fff8e7-deactivated20110621 asked: "classes harder than most people will encounter"
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“This is a waste of American’s money and time. These students were friendly,...”
– By far the most revolting, idiotic, elitist and not-so-thinly-veiled racist comment on this totally not-newsworthy story. Drugs? On a college campus? I’m oh-so-astonished! Don’t worry, “student”. Your buddies will probably walk. Idiot.
Five Columbia Students Arrested on Drug Charges -...
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Phone Call - Jon Brion
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pork2k:
For those of you who don’t know, this is...
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A question for other writers: do you ever read over the things you’ve written and wish you were dead?
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I HAVE FEELINGS!!!!
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a poem called White
Alone atop a plywood mountain dusted carefully and perfectly, thick and soft under feet, green-strung Christmas lights twinkle and (this of course because we think so) illuminate the sickly wooden shape and this intimate passage makes: this town and streets, yellow, white and blackened green. Lonely. I dream of things I’ve seen and places that I’ve been. I’m there again before I’m gone. I...
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"More Fronts, More Problems" →
Once upon a time when I wanted to be a war historian/was in love with my history teachers, I did a project on the first world war for a history class. All we had to do was make a poster or something but instead I wrote 5,895 words detailing the progression of the war as well as cultural context and the war’s immediate implications.
a-traveshamockery asked: luke. i am your father. bring me the spam and eggs pronto!
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edward sharpe and the magnetic perks of being a wallflower
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Dear Self,
Do not judge things (pickles, art museums, Fleetwood Mac, spinach) based on opinions you formed while prepubescent.
Love, Self
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“Age 16
I will get out of this fucking city. I will arrive in a small,...”
– Emma Barrie, “Some Futures I Thought I Might Have”
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“Age 16
I will get out of this fucking city. I will arrive in a small,...”
– Emma Barrie, “Some Futures I Thought I Might Have”
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I have been reading the same three pages of Gravity’s Rainbow for the past ten days, but I managed to read all of Rohin Guha’s chapbook on the subway to Harlem from Queens and I’ve also written nearly a thousand words about how I am artistically crippled by Infinite Jest.
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“My creative signature is mental illness. Given Hal Incandenza’s reduction...”
– yes, i’m still going with this, and i’m going to turn it into a novel i think.