Sunday, August 12, 2012


I was looking through my desk drawers today, and I found a journal I kept last summer. It always feels weird to read my own writing after not looking at it for a while; it's like looking through somebody else's eyes.
The little black book I wrote in 12 months ago, still a bit more than half blank, called out to me like crack to an addict, or Bella's blood to Edward. Anytime I see a blank notebook page, I want, no, need, to write. It's in my blood, a generation of get-out-into-the-world dreams rendered futile by diapers and revolution. It makes me think sacreligiously- what makes my writing so different than Hemingway, Byron, Hugo, Homer? Okay that bit should probably be omitted, as I could probably mentally castrate myself for thinking it. Which makes this scenario practically identical to heresy, yet not due to the fact that I can brandish my priviledge of saying whatever with the impunity of somebody who will never be taken seriously. Like that time a guy handed me a sticker for a Democratic candidate and I pleasantly took him aback by saying 'I'm a Republican.' (BTW my political status is murky at best.) Which must've really surprised him since I could pass for a 10 year old, if 10 year old asian girls had boobs. (ish.)

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