I don't feel like writing about my damn predicament. School, money, move, the CSA debacle. Don't know if that's over yet. Still haven't heard from Sallie Mae like the lady promised.
(from last night:)
Exterminate.
There is this small window of time when we can have one of our enjoyable conversations about life/philosophy/future. Tonight it closed early, Dr. Who stepped in. Of course I should have said something ("can't read your mind") to lead us back to the discussion of how do you destroy "the self," but I went out to the damn crossword thinking he would follow. (And then he tries to put his balls on the cat's head.)
Been thinking about the stories I write, why I rarely feel creative, why certain themes, certain times of year, why I've been revising and expanding the same trite story for...3 or 4 years. Not that I don't enjoy it but no one I know has ever seen it. It was on the internet. Few people know of the character, someone who's been with me since I was about 12. I've changed her name though. Karin is now Jaime. Did you know she's a Vanderbilt? Always has been. (I really must go back to North Carolina.)
Chris once told me it makes me creative. Yeah, I guess, on like an Anne Rice level. I was happy to know it doesn't make me crazy. I don't want to talk about it beyond that. It's too personal I guess.
I guess it's normal. Becoming a character, but the same one since 1990? Yeah, I guess so.
I miss CCP. I feel guilty. I should be a better relative and friend. Sometimes I wonder if I don't suffer more from narcissism than depression.
It's eerily quiet, even for a Sunday.
I wish I could remember the thing I read about -isms recently (coming off thoughts of voyeurism). The difference between -isms and -ists. Actually I think it was in the Philly Weekly; abortionists, technically, should be against abortion, the grammarian dude's column or something.
Who knows. It's all blurring together. The Ligotti and the Houellebecq and the Weekly.
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