~~it's a lot like having polio.

reading this article on writing restored my faith in my slacker writer self. i just write because i can't tap-dance or sing the blues. plot, who?

my "self-contempt [is] giving rise in comic form".

and why in the world did my (dead) father die an entirely new and grisly death in my dream. GRISLY, i tell you. grisly. i mean, oh man oh man, i've never dreamed death like -that- before. in the end, he was squashed by a giant stack of papers. *laughs* i dunno, is that tmi? really? i mean, is it? but obviously i have issues. just in case my conscious mind wasn't aware, my subconscious is reminding me. DIE, PROGENITOR, DIEEEEEEE!!!

this is why i never took drugs. this is why.

The kids in your nursery project will be disappointed, but you have a calling, an urge, a delusion, an unfortunate habit. You have, as your mother would say, fallen in with a bad crowd.

.... i love this woman -.- i'm hearing this music, you see. this -music-. and this music sings to me, and it tells me, reena? this is your life. obviously, i have not yet achieved the fullness of it, but yes. i am that sad, sad writer chick. i am that oboe, clinking in the wind. i am every english professor's worst nightmare. oh. the self-love is boundless. so, so boundless. *cries*
~~

since when did hatred become sexy?

okay, so sometimes i just open my eyes, and blink, and wonder what in the hell have i been -smoking-.

and like, i don't know, because i'm still smoking it, obviously. but still! just. i should never go to ff.net. never, never, never. not for anything. not for candy. not for babies. not for anything.

and then i wake up -again- (it's like, dreams within dreams, wherein i keep secrets from myself. and i think i don't know things, just because i forget them for a second), and then it's like-- duh. obviously, hatred has always been sexy. like, back in the day, too. way back with the pillaging and the raping, and the "garrr" big man with his stick staking out his territory. and he pretends he doesn't have a soft bone (ahem) in his body. like, it's all about the "arg" and the "gar". because otherwise it's not manly. right? *laughs*

okay, i have no clue what i'm talking about. i was thinking, more, that conflict and adrenaline and fighting are just things that excite one, so bingo. lust.
    but no, what confuses me isn't why -anyone- wants it, but why do -i- think about it at all. i think i could just doze out and think about the sky and the (surprising lack of) snow. and... maybe it's all too much angst to have over silly plebefic. i mean, it's kind of plebey, but i kind of like it. kind of.

i think it's because i try to imagine something else-- like, something softer and gentler, and my mind goes to sleep. or maybe i'm just in that state of mind right now, where i can see myself spacing out, counting baby ferrets in my head. one baby ferret, two baby ferret, three baby ferret....

death and angst and ridiculous humor are at least dramatic. if you're not dramatic, what do you have? limp noodles. a lot of limp noodles. right. brain not functioning.

( wrote this last night, thinking about the possible urge to write incestfic... )