hello blue sunday
my hero today mr vonnegut, i salute you, yorke the antihero i salute you too , it is possible to think in these times , for this i am grateful to be reminded. im not sure if there are any others today, there are scores of motivated humans doing wonderous deeds for humanity for whatever motivation, i would salute them but im reserving the right not to, there are others who will do that. may the energetic do that. I'm on the side of the ancient
i was meant to be a writer, however, as genetics frequently attests, lifes miracle is its ability to fuck with fate, and as such I was born without talent. I have the temperament, the attraction to booze and cigarrettes and self mutilation. I have the height, many great writers are in fact very short, this is unverifiable on wikipedia but its one of those things i know to be true. I have the bouts of very boring depression, violent tempers and self flagellation. A few people around me believe that hidden underneath every self depreciating depressive with suicidal tendencies and hermitudanal desires is something. In this case, sorry your wrong. to paraphrase hero of the week 'i could carve a better writer out of a bannana' they at least wouldnt struggle spelling the word bannana.
i also have the sex life of a writer. well it seems worthy of a writer anyway, i should leave at that really but the problem is, associated once again with talent that i dont have, i cant. i wrote a sentence which on rereading i thought, what?, do i think writers are by nature uncomfortable and indifferently treated by sex/love if i was to think of the SO talented but by all accounts prodigiouly bastardly Salman Rushdie's supermodel wife number three, i would say obviously not. some of them die of venereal diseases, like artists. it was an asside, which in hindsight should have been deleted. writers do that i suppose, edit. Im quite unequivocabley apposed to it as much as my friend Katie is apposed to plastic surgery. its delete one and all or go on with the curse of a trail of diatribe and cellulite behind you.
i have a head full of other people and a very quiet life. the reverse might be useful
i was meant to be a writer, however, as genetics frequently attests, lifes miracle is its ability to fuck with fate, and as such I was born without talent. I have the temperament, the attraction to booze and cigarrettes and self mutilation. I have the height, many great writers are in fact very short, this is unverifiable on wikipedia but its one of those things i know to be true. I have the bouts of very boring depression, violent tempers and self flagellation. A few people around me believe that hidden underneath every self depreciating depressive with suicidal tendencies and hermitudanal desires is something. In this case, sorry your wrong. to paraphrase hero of the week 'i could carve a better writer out of a bannana' they at least wouldnt struggle spelling the word bannana.
i also have the sex life of a writer. well it seems worthy of a writer anyway, i should leave at that really but the problem is, associated once again with talent that i dont have, i cant. i wrote a sentence which on rereading i thought, what?, do i think writers are by nature uncomfortable and indifferently treated by sex/love if i was to think of the SO talented but by all accounts prodigiouly bastardly Salman Rushdie's supermodel wife number three, i would say obviously not. some of them die of venereal diseases, like artists. it was an asside, which in hindsight should have been deleted. writers do that i suppose, edit. Im quite unequivocabley apposed to it as much as my friend Katie is apposed to plastic surgery. its delete one and all or go on with the curse of a trail of diatribe and cellulite behind you.
i have a head full of other people and a very quiet life. the reverse might be useful
posted by kel at 7:03 PM
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