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I need a website
Mar. 13th, 2003 09:53 am
All this shit I want to post. My favorite books from the past three years. Photos of our world travels. Links to other sites. Music stuff. Like this Neko Case chick I just discovered. God, there's so much good music in the world, and we have to keep hearing shit on the radio. I like the convenience of radio. My car doesn't have a tape player or CD player. Call me bass-ackwards. I should get one. Anyhow, I do hear about some decent music sometimes when I'm listening to National Public Radio, which is how I heard about Neko Case this morning. They played a clip from a song, and I was like, fuck, how often do you get to hear a voice like that? That's exactly what I was like. So now I'm cruising for more clips. And I might actually buy some music. I know that supposedly nobody does that anymore, but whatever. Except I won't be able to listen to it in my car.
Complete change of subject -- yesterday I ordered a 12 oz latte with one shot, but I got two shots. I was okay with that at the time, but now I've got such a caffeine jones that I think I'm a rug. That's it. Just a heavy wool rug, lying on the floor. Heavily. And I am so very hard to move. And I have so very much to do. Stupid shit, of course. Buying a lightbulb for my husband's car, because it's pudiddle. Filling up my gas tank. Buying groceries so we don't starve or eat cereal for dinner. (I'm out of cereal, anyway.) Stupid shit, but it has to be done. And I've had a cup of coffee and it is not helping. I want sleep. I want to lie like a rug.
This is the perfect time to write fiction. Or anything, for that matter. I am too tired to care whether it's any good or not. You see, the censor, that part that keeps telling me "your writing sucks, your sentences are boring, nobody cares, you're going to piss someone off" and all those other dumbass things censors say to keep artists from ever getting off their a, well, that asshole it turns out requires a lot of energy. So, when I'm feeling like a wool rug, (maybe even a wet wool rug), that lazy sonofaso-and-so is asleep. Like I want to be. But I am better than him. I can sneak around behind his back while he's asleep and write shit and he can't stop me.
So, that's what I should do now.
Complete change of subject -- yesterday I ordered a 12 oz latte with one shot, but I got two shots. I was okay with that at the time, but now I've got such a caffeine jones that I think I'm a rug. That's it. Just a heavy wool rug, lying on the floor. Heavily. And I am so very hard to move. And I have so very much to do. Stupid shit, of course. Buying a lightbulb for my husband's car, because it's pudiddle. Filling up my gas tank. Buying groceries so we don't starve or eat cereal for dinner. (I'm out of cereal, anyway.) Stupid shit, but it has to be done. And I've had a cup of coffee and it is not helping. I want sleep. I want to lie like a rug.
This is the perfect time to write fiction. Or anything, for that matter. I am too tired to care whether it's any good or not. You see, the censor, that part that keeps telling me "your writing sucks, your sentences are boring, nobody cares, you're going to piss someone off" and all those other dumbass things censors say to keep artists from ever getting off their a, well, that asshole it turns out requires a lot of energy. So, when I'm feeling like a wool rug, (maybe even a wet wool rug), that lazy sonofaso-and-so is asleep. Like I want to be. But I am better than him. I can sneak around behind his back while he's asleep and write shit and he can't stop me.
So, that's what I should do now.
