My two last attempts at fiction are both blatantly autobiographical. I am okay with that. One, written December 21. The other, today, January 15. I am not entirely happy with how they are turning out, but it takes practice, something I am not doing enough obviously if you look at the fact that nearly a month seperates these two attempts. I had resolved to do this every day for at least an hour, and today, I am starting that resolution again. I want to talk to about the Smashing Pumpkins and alt-rock and masturbation and loneliness and I have all this in my mind, these great ambitions, but then I am always so ambivalent, if not depressed, by what I have actually written, that the putting down to paper doesn't come as easily as the memories do.
I am a nervous wreck today. A recipe for you to be a nervous wreck also: Have a cold. Take a lot of Dayquil. Then drink not only tea, but a brew of really potent coffee, and man, I am overstimulated but physically weak and so all that energy is going to my mind and I am losing it.