Let's put it this way.

There's somewhere else I'd rather be, and something else I'd rather be doing.

Me and the major don't see eye to eye.

I'm in the throes of Catch-22 at the moment, so that line has more signifigance than it was probably meant to have. Or just enough.

This weekend was the stuff of memories.

I could stay up and watch the sunrise tonight, and shape the world with words.

an iron fisted champion
an iron willed fuck up

Today, I will create nothing. Problem is, I'm feeling stunted. Too absorbed in my own small stand of trees to see the forest. And I haven't been around anyone for long enough today ( Read more... )

I am terrible and keeping in touch with anyone or anything. I am just a big out of touch ball.

I'm also really tired of great distances.

And of the question "how are you?"

And of the heat in the auditorium.

I think I will no longer remember anything.

The search for a new car begins. It would be less frustrating if my father would talk to me about it. But paticence is the key here - a virtue I've yet to master. I must be simple and quiet and small right now, or this could turn in a nuclear disaster.

In a heavy walk to seaside peirs, there were clanking coins that kept the beat of my step as I pounded boards. No cigarette adorned my mouth, nor the calming haze of smoke and mirrors - just the tempest of an arching frame in the cellar of an old hotel surrounded by the shakey promises of a lover, left for self-discovery. Burlap and the quite sound ( Read more... )

I always write history papers with a) more vigor than they're worth and b) very slowly. I don't know why I can blow through a paper for any other class, but I slog through anything historical. Well, actually, I do, but they're silly reasons ( Read more... )

You would think this wouldn't happen. You would think, upon getting accepted to one of the top five schools in the nation, things would be clear sailing ( Read more... )

Sometimes, I think my life is a musical, in which everything goes according to plan. The swells of strings would be rising now, as I giggle to myself in the January air, wrapped up in a threadbare comforter with a cellphone to my ear. Your voice still sounds beautiful through monophonic transmission, stripped of nothing of it's essence ( Read more... )