March 11th, 2006

this is me

gather me up and whisper slowly.

The trip back from Kville was long and tiresome. Des Plaines sucks all sorts of ass, but seriously... compared to Kirksville, it's fucking paradise. No joke.

Last night Martha and I went to see Capote, which was extremely depressing and really good. We were the only people in the theater. How often does that happen? It definitely added to the atmosphere of the movie. We then went to Denny's (of course). It was an all around fantastic Friday night.

Today I put my laundry away (huzzah for clean clothing) and sat around and ate. A lot. I have razor burn, which is because I suck at shaving, and my contacts pretty much just hate my eyes. Apparently nobody wants to do anything tonight, so I'm just listening to the rain and random CDs that I haven't played in about a thousand years or so.


I wish I had been alive at a time where writers were among the Social Elite: back when they formed their own stratified social circles consisting of all sorts of liaisons. The best writers were respected above all others--sex was used as a tool and love was rare and true. Vodka chugged, cigarettes puffed, life was lived. I wish I hadn't missed the days of grandeur and infamy.

(But am I a writer? It doesn't feel like it anymore. It doesn't feel like it has ever been. I have no delusions: I will be no Hemingway or Fitzgerald. I wear the guise of neither Capote nor Stein. I... am average. As much as it hurts to admit, it's the sad-yet-unfortunate Truth.)
  • Current Music
    Placebo - Haemoglobin