So the thing about being in a writing program is it feels like all writing needs to be devoted to making work for my program. I feel less guilty wasting time doing things that make me feel worse about the world than I do about writing here. But reading about how shitty the world is is starting to get to me. I can’t spend time on the internet anymore. It’s just too terrible a place.
All this to say: I’m trying to come back here. It’s better than reading about who hit whom, and who is going to prison for what, and where in the world is on fire, and where in the universe smells the most like farts (spoiler: it’s everywhere. Everywhere smells most like farts).
I am trying to finish my thesis for school (a novel! A novel about a terrible family doing terrible things to each other terribly, but the writing is good, so I got what I came to school for), and another project (a weird, weird sort of semi-autobiography thing, made up of bizarre answers to a questionnaire I stole from a psychologist and an inventory of myself and a gazetteer of the places I’ve lived–needless to say IT’S HOT, SO HOT, AND ALL THE KIDS WILL BE IN THE THEATERS SOON WATCHING A MOVIE BASED ON THE BOOK OF MY LIFE), and I’m trying not to stretch myself so thin I just give up on everything and eat salty snacks. I ate a bag of goldfish crackers yesterday and it was painful to open my eyes this morning. They weren’t crusty or anything, the corneas were just so dry the lids were almost sealed to them, pieces of rubber to glass.
I have no illusions this will last. We shall see.