It’s far enough from bed time that it’s happening.
We’re watching Blink.
Thirty seconds in and it’s creepy as fuck.
Probably wouldn’t be if I hadn’t seen the newer Weeping Angel episodes.
OH WELL TOO LATE.
I made a tasty dinner though.
I got home from a long day in the world and immediately lay down. I set an alarm for forty-five minutes but kept extending and extending. Ten more minutes, three more, two. I finally got myself out of bed by knowing that I had to make lunch for tomorrow, but really I bribed myself with a bowl of cereal. Then I twisted my ankle getting the cereal down from Tanner’s tallperson shelf, the end.
Epilogue: still haven’t made tomorrow’s lunch.
this poverty (from Sappho)
so blessed to sit with you
is anyone up close
bathed in the cool sweet silver
bells of your voice
and your laugh
like water over small
wet fresh stones
hits my chest like a cannon
(relief to give over to)
knocks the wind out of me
from way over there
and my breath
and my voice
are gone all gone
my tongue swells to fill
(heavy) my lonely mouth
and this fire flares up
under my skin
a little prickle
refuses to burn me up and away
the world drowns ink black
and a roar fills my ears
an angry ocean)
salt sweat pours down me and
in a trembling
vanishes my blood
I am paler than grass
just a little short of death!
or so I seem (at least to myself)
(me, via gchat)
No I would not say my first year of writing grad school has taken me anywhere I expected.
Superpure water is such a good solvent it can dissolve YOUR HAND.
Not as fast as acid or anything. Apparently it feels *soapy*. But the soapiness is your DISSOLVING HAND.
Kicking off the last week of the semester with a cold. This is AWESOME. I LOVE LIFE.
Fuck cooking pulled pork in a bottle of beer. Cook that shit in a bottle of hoisin sauce.
In the process of finding an internship for this summer, just got warned about having to read vampire novels.
After a year of grad school, that sounds kind of like heaven.
Revelation: people have trouble talking about race.
Here is your Pulitzer for that, Bruce Norris.” —GPOYW
Writing in a coffee shop in my neighborhood. If I didn’t have to take the subway there, it’s ok if I’m wearing leggings as pants.
I don’t know if the guy in front of my building was masturbating or peeing. He skulked away when he saw me and got into a minivan that was waiting on Broadway.