Not really, she told me he’s bad in bed. So that’s why I bitch about being a door away. They’re room literally is connected to my “room” by a single set of doors. So I might as well be in their closet while they have sex.
there are two flimsy French doors separating me from sex. I want to go back to Iowa. And instead I am being traumatized. Maybe it’s not sex. Maybe they’re rearranging themselves on the bed and it’s creaking as a result. Ugh.
If the mangaka dies before her characters get together, I will be a sad closet otaku. She released her first series in 1996, so I actually fear that her ten-year ongoing series will never be completed.
I have been digging through the layers of songs that I bookmarked. These all are from at least six months ago, enough time for me to completely forget what all I wanted to download.
And half the songs are sleep. I had insomnia for the longest time, and everything I bookmarked from that time period is calm, quiet, steady. The way the songs are sung makes them sound like lullabies. I guess I thought that if I couldn’t have sleep, I could at least keep calm using music.
So, if I recall correctly, my last resolution was in 2007. And it went along the lines of ‘I’ll no longer promise something to myself at the beginning of each year, because it’s not like I’ll stick to it anyway.’ I stuck to that promise. No more New Year’s resolutions.
However, I do have a resolution. I want to lost around fifty pounds by this time next year. Not for aesthetics, not for health. So that I am comfortable in my own skin. When I do a back bend, I have to stop because there’s fat there. So I’m literally less mobile than a thinner me could be. And I can only afford the clothes I already own, so outgrowing them means moving to a nudist colony.
I don’t want to lose three pounds a day exercising myself to death. But I don’t want to end up in a nudist colony. So this is a resolution for me, and not for the New Year.
How do you know which word should be first, the most important? Or is it that the last few words convey the most, giving you something to think on? No, it must be the beginning. Without the curious combination of words, what else would compel the ordinary mind to a work? What could cause your curiosity to override your laziness, your business, and everything else that you might think up? Is it a sin or madness to go along with it, to allow yourself to succumb to someone else’s thoughts? It is the best thing that you could ever do. If you have talent enough, you can enter a world that does not really exist. Madness. But better. If you’re even more talented and brilliant, you might be able to form the world that is rest for the weary. Let them rest their fingers on the edge of the pages, eyes moving without pause. The ink soaks into skin, making you a reservoir. Hold onto my words please. Please. Isn’t that what so many authors think? If they write well enough, or wish hard enough, there might be another person that understands. I say that, but what of fame? Isn’t the wish for fame as much of a lure? I know a little minded person, and they think that it is what every author wishes for. If that’s it, we’re all masochists. The frustration of the incorrect word, the misplaced tense, it’s infuriating. And worse yet, the countless rejections. Whatever the author thinks is a marvelous novel thing, has in fact been done over a score of times. And failed to engage already ink smeared fingers. And by all the books, you must be tired. Poor author. This isn’t what you intended at all. You meant for something else to happen. Didn’t you? All of this is meant to mean nothing. It is rambling, though I wish it was considered quality. Maybe you agree. Nothing is ever as great as someone else’s work. Or if it is, it’s still not as great as it could have been, would have been if you were better. Are you just growing into your talent? Or is it that you have none? Forgive me for being mean, these are the thoughts of a reader, to an author. If you would explain yourselves properly, coherently, maybe there wouldn’t be a misunderstanding. I suppose that clarity would be unappealing to some. Are you trying to appeal to all? Why? It would be stupid to try to please a publisher. You are an author. You. Are. A. Writer. So fucking write. Say what you will. Lie with paper and ink. Or tell the emotional truth. There shouldn’t be another person commanding you to create. It is your own prerogative, forever and always. Have a fairy tale ending and live happily ever after. Or descend into a dark alter hell. Stop in midsentence if it pleases you, or forgo sentences altogether. I don’t care. I will do what I ought.
“You have no responsibility to live up to what other people think you ought to accomplish. I have no responsibility to be like they expect me to be. It’s their mistake, not my failing.”—Richard P. Feynman (via arrestingattention)
I can feel it. Like an itching in my veins. And it won’t go away until I’ve written. It went away for a few weeks, but it’s always there. Just lurking underneath the surface of my skin. What I write might not be brilliant, but it will be a cathartic experience. I don’t know if anyone else ever feels like this, or if I could even really explain it if I tried. It must terrible, to want to do something and be completely unable to. If writing was forbidden, I would cry. No one should ever forget that words are wings.