Earlier I composed a medium-ish long post, thought I'd saved it to drafts, but guess what?
The depressing thing is it was brilliant, the best thing I've ever written, and may have won me a Nobel Prize. Now no one will see it. Ever. Because who can recreate greatness? Who?
Oh my God, whooooooo??!!
(Now I'm trying for Best Leading Actress in a Melodrama.)
Busy week. Busy, busy! Homework, work work, practicum work. Headaches. Lots of headaches. Possible brain tumor?
Earlier I wrote about the book I've been dipping into lately, A Reader's Manifesto: An Attack on the Growing Pretentiousness in American Literary Prose by B. R. Myers. Dewd basically is a major curmudgeon. I like curmudgeons, partly because they remind me of the endearing quality I see in myself, that propensity to complain about stuff no one else even cares about. But I care about it, passionately. I'm adorable that way. Don't you just want to pinch my cheeks?
NOT THOSE. You are so beyond redemption.
Myers makes some stupid ass comments about good writers like Annie Proulx, but he also says some good stuff about how bloated a lot of "literary fiction" is these days. True, B.R. So true.
Busy weekend ahead. Busy, busy! Doctor tomorrow (I love her!), homework the rest of that day and the next, and a sliver of time devoted to having a complete nervous breakdown. Same old, same old.
Today's Paul's birthday. He probably wouldn't like me advertising his age, so I won't. All I'll say is 38 plus six = 44 .
Don't you love math?
I'm going to take my medications now. Have a lovely evening.