Maybe there's a scene in my novel where someone gets stabbed. I've had nightmares where I'm stabbed in public and no one stops to help me while my guts are spilling out. I don't know what that means.
Work is weird. No, not work. People. Work doesn't care either way. I got a headache today at work. There's this colonial American room with these windows that are backlit to look like it's a nice day outside. The lights are fluorescent. If I look at them too long, my forehead feels pressed like something inside is growing and shrinking, growing and shrinking. I don't know anything about the human body.
I'm going to see an amateur opera performance on Friday. It's happening in a church. It'll be the first time I've been in a church since God knows when. Ha ha. But really, I've never seen an opera. I don't know anything about opera.
I have a story up at Metazen. It's about a Kentucky friend. She's been writing me letters. I read them with the reverence and immediacy of Elizabeth Bennet. I want a new culture of letters. Don't worry. I don't get what I want. I have a few pen pals, though. If you're one of them, I'll be writing you soon. I don't know how to write in cursive anymore, so be warned. I've had teachers tell me I write like a little girl. Every word I write looks like a popping balloon.
My birthday is on Good Friday this year. When I was in high school and "on fire for the Lord," I used to participate in this event where we'd fake crucify someone dressed as Christ. There was this resurrection scene involved. I remember suggesting we make Christ wear a robe that glittered in the spotlights. Someone said, "That's the gayest thing I've ever heard." Well, duh.
I don't know a lot of people I want to know. I have this problem where I read a piece of writing and then I want to know the writer. I guess that's not a problem. I know some writers now. I imagine one of them is my friend, as far as the internet can take that sort of thing. We've shared our tastes in porn. There's no going back.
Work is weird. No, not work. People. Work doesn't care either way. I got a headache today at work. There's this colonial American room with these windows that are backlit to look like it's a nice day outside. The lights are fluorescent. If I look at them too long, my forehead feels pressed like something inside is growing and shrinking, growing and shrinking. I don't know anything about the human body.
I'm going to see an amateur opera performance on Friday. It's happening in a church. It'll be the first time I've been in a church since God knows when. Ha ha. But really, I've never seen an opera. I don't know anything about opera.
I have a story up at Metazen. It's about a Kentucky friend. She's been writing me letters. I read them with the reverence and immediacy of Elizabeth Bennet. I want a new culture of letters. Don't worry. I don't get what I want. I have a few pen pals, though. If you're one of them, I'll be writing you soon. I don't know how to write in cursive anymore, so be warned. I've had teachers tell me I write like a little girl. Every word I write looks like a popping balloon.
My birthday is on Good Friday this year. When I was in high school and "on fire for the Lord," I used to participate in this event where we'd fake crucify someone dressed as Christ. There was this resurrection scene involved. I remember suggesting we make Christ wear a robe that glittered in the spotlights. Someone said, "That's the gayest thing I've ever heard." Well, duh.
I don't know a lot of people I want to know. I have this problem where I read a piece of writing and then I want to know the writer. I guess that's not a problem. I know some writers now. I imagine one of them is my friend, as far as the internet can take that sort of thing. We've shared our tastes in porn. There's no going back.