Listening to: “Honeymoon” – Bombadil

Life is stories that you fake
And rake like leaves behind you….

Hiya, blog. Don’t be pissed that I’ve been MIA. I still care. I do. I’m popping in again because, well, I’m BLOCK’D. You know, that thing. Where I need to write shit, and the shit is not getting written no matter how many hours I sit a’plopped in front of my computer screen. Otherwise, I’d just be putting shit on my totally unnecessary new Tumblr account.

I’m trying to write an ad for a varicose vein treatment center. Here’s what I’ve got so far: Hey, 50something ladies! Get yer legs cut open here! Not catchy? No? It’s a work in progress.

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I have an interview tomorrow morning at my neighborhood bagel joint. Just imagine, this guy up before the sun every morning, arranging foodstuffs inside starchy rounds. Sleep schedules will have to be drastically, painfully altered. But I can deal with it.

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Creative writingwise, I’ve been a little of the slump. Whenever I sit down to work on my own projects, I feel like I should be doing all the freelance shit I need to do instead. Which is true, I should.

That said, I’ve started actually committing to paper this silly story that’s been fermenting in my head-cask for at least a decade now. A lifelong insomniac like Yrs Truly (thanks, D.F.W.) can’t generally fall asleep without either A) Substances, or B) Making up shit to pass the pre-R.E.M. time. This has long taken the form of one, I repeat, very silly, action/adventure/romance/allegory about oppressive regimes, mountains, traitors, rebel factions, and dudes riding around on the backs of giant eagles. Yeah, shut up. Just color me ten years from now, some kind of back-bookshelf genre hero. Then we’ll see who’s laughing. No, just kidding. Quit looking at me like that. Just kidding.

Speaking of D.F.W., the best advice I have gleaned from Infinite Jest thus far (on page 433 and plugging along, slightly behind on Infinite Summer):

Try to learn to let what is unfair teach you.

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In Real Life news, the roomie and I are grabbing the dog and the horribly mutilated futon and moving across the river to Cambridge next month. It’ll be weird not to be an Allstonite–we’ve been here for 3 years. 3 YEARS. Can you believe that shit? Before that I was IN COLLEGE. What?

But that’s a nostalgic wax for another day, Dear Reader. Right now, there is vein draining to be discussed in aesthetically pleasing ways. Why is it today of all days that we run out of beer?

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Here, have a webcomic:

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