curbdrop out of grace

do you ever scream into wells?

i want to be a writer. my ideal job is to write, while taking care of the kids. that sounds so lame and blah but that is what i want. if i ever get it, i'm sure i will no longer want.

things i own branded google:
1. google blanket
2. google hat
3. google pens
4. google radio
5. a blog on blogger

i thought there was more. maybe there is more or maybe it is an illusion from thinking and talking and spitting google all day long.

i once wrote a short story that was pretty funny. it was about my love life in college, so how could it not be funny? of course there was a tragic ending: i had hope.

the beginning was ripped off lennon's song "god". the beginning went like this:
"love is a concept by which we measure our pain."

i lost the short story when my hard drive crashed. i lost everything. my advice to you is this: back up everything. whether it be old song demos or poems, pictures, or your heart. back it all up. you don't know when things go poof.

there are bugs in my kitchen. i told the two fucker roommates of mine to clean up their shit because bugs will crawl over leftovers and infest my soul. they didn't listen. then i wrote it down for them, being a bastard like roommate like that. they did not take the hint. so now i'm going to move out when i figure out where to move. i could move closer to yuppie ville, north or south of where i live now. or i could move west to where indie-yupies and hipsters hide. or i could move back to good old detroit and buy a house. or i could jump into lake michigan.

i write like this when i'm not fucked up, like now. is this not normal thought process? what is normal? maybe i have a chance as a writer as this is hard stuff to come up with, this style or genre of trapazoid-thought? would you buy a book i wrote? goodnite.

posted by fillshe @ 12:38 AM