| | I was looking through my forms of fiction journal (due wednesday) and came across this bullshit that I had written a few months ago. I find it still a bit fitting.
He probably could have been an 'A' student but she left him, he started drinking and stopped going to class. It wasn't that it was too hard for him, moreso that he didn't care. He never missed writing class and he'd go so out of his way to see you. He probably just wants to fuck you but you two are getting serious and he's emotionally messy. He's got more luggage holding him back than a newly arriving passenger at the JFK International. And fuck, he wanted to take notes right now and catch up but fuck fuck fuck! Maybe a poem he thought but it's some essayish prosey bullshit. And these fucks don't even know what a goddamned morpheme is. So fuck them, I'm waisting my goddamned time. And if I go to Prague for this writing program, I'm never coming back. I might as well be useless in a better place right? Funny how I'm such a dick and think I'm so fucking good and yet this went from second person to first like nothing professional. And he (like the conscious switch back?) might just be too drunk or he might just be sick of it. He wanders if poets, writers, ever feel like they've written something splendid. Is he going to be the next Hemingway lush minus the talent? Fuck, he might fake a death, disappear and see if his work goes over better posthumously. Now he takes a line of notes and notices the girl next to him, with her sunkissed thighs in her short shorts. He could love her and make love to her like she's never known. But now he's coming out of his drunken haze so it's time to take another swig of Pepsi and rum and hope things work themselves out for once.
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| | Posted 12/4/2007 10:35 AM - 1 comments
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