Last night I conked out on the couch during my homework.
I dreamed about a boy I used to date.
He came into my living room and said "How 'bout I just read it to you?"
No hanky panky. Just me, and my book, and a foxy man.
Even this has become the stuff of fantasy.
You can find me in the library, decomposing beneath contemporary and romantic era literature... highlighter in hand, inspiration on the verge, greatly in need of summertime.
I have forgotten what its like to:
*eat something
(not prepared by three mashes of my microwave's ADD 30 SECONDS button.)
*participate in group discussions
(not involving symbols, themes, and character analysis.)
*think in language
(not resembling Jane Austen paragraphs.)
*wear legit pants.
Am I being drivin to insanity... or genius?
(Readin this stuff best make me a better writer.)
HELP.
1 comment:
I completely understand/support your lack of real pants. And, darling, you're already a good writer. Jane Austen's got nothing on you. ;)
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