I wish it would warm the fuck up already. If it was summertime, I wouldn't be sick and stuck in the house. I could be on a motorcycle (admittedly, it would be Justin's, and I'd have to bug him to give me rides,) or fooling around in the garage with the heavy bag, or climbing trees, or running around with no shoes, or doing walkovers on the grass, or swinging.
But no, I'm stuck here with paperwork. Dad wants it done by close of business today. I don't care. I don't know what I'm doing- I have no clue how to do accounting, and no one's told me anything about it; so far I'm just adding up things on receipts by year and writing them in a ledger. Whatever. I'm not quite cut out for this, I think.
On the upshot I get to take classes later in the spring. One on creative writing, one on marketing on what you wrote, and one on book keeping. (Dad wants me to take that last one. I wanted to take Russian, but nooooo.)
Still working on my femslash story. It's a little bit too chatty at this point- I wanted more imagery, less dialouge, but any of you who've read my stuff know that it runs to alot of dialouge. Ech. I don't know.
I thought of a really great poem lying in bed last night. Unfortunately, I couldn't remember the words by the time I decided to write it down, which is sad cause it was REALLY good. Here's what I wrote down of it. (In the dark, in bed. Which means I needed my Little Orphan Annie Ring to decode it all.)
My sheets are swimming in your memory
and yet
you haven't touched them
now, then, ever
...
The way you would
pull me down from the walls
with gentle insistence
not smotheringly
is something I love about you
that,
and the way you smile
into my pillow
(yes, the one
that your head has never touched)
...
And it was such a beautiful poem
I can't remember it all now
I will have forgotten it
by morning
except for these
words,
hastily scribbled in the dark.
(The scratching of the pen
sounds wonderful
with my eyes closed-
thank you for that)
I think I want to be a forensic pathologist.
I have more space for icons, but I don't know what icons to make. Help me out, someone. Ideas?
But no, I'm stuck here with paperwork. Dad wants it done by close of business today. I don't care. I don't know what I'm doing- I have no clue how to do accounting, and no one's told me anything about it; so far I'm just adding up things on receipts by year and writing them in a ledger. Whatever. I'm not quite cut out for this, I think.
On the upshot I get to take classes later in the spring. One on creative writing, one on marketing on what you wrote, and one on book keeping. (Dad wants me to take that last one. I wanted to take Russian, but nooooo.)
Still working on my femslash story. It's a little bit too chatty at this point- I wanted more imagery, less dialouge, but any of you who've read my stuff know that it runs to alot of dialouge. Ech. I don't know.
I thought of a really great poem lying in bed last night. Unfortunately, I couldn't remember the words by the time I decided to write it down, which is sad cause it was REALLY good. Here's what I wrote down of it. (In the dark, in bed. Which means I needed my Little Orphan Annie Ring to decode it all.)
My sheets are swimming in your memory
and yet
you haven't touched them
now, then, ever
...
The way you would
pull me down from the walls
with gentle insistence
not smotheringly
is something I love about you
that,
and the way you smile
into my pillow
(yes, the one
that your head has never touched)
...
And it was such a beautiful poem
I can't remember it all now
I will have forgotten it
by morning
except for these
words,
hastily scribbled in the dark.
(The scratching of the pen
sounds wonderful
with my eyes closed-
thank you for that)
I think I want to be a forensic pathologist.
I have more space for icons, but I don't know what icons to make. Help me out, someone. Ideas?