Love Parade - Orange Range. Ultimate chill out and feel good about humanity group.

“ For a long time after that she sat in her apartment, not doing much. She found herself putting her hands on her face a lot, around her eyes, over her mouth. She was touching, touching, like a parent, like a sister. It’s ok; it’s over. That was the worst of it. See? It’s over. Put it away and close the lid. She felt a little washed by the confrontation. She felt a little empty, but it was ok. There’s no reason to be scared, Lily, M——-, sweetheart, love of my life, she told herself. The changes that had begun with his death turned her around to OK, slowly. The changes persisted and beat quiet steady time in her for awhile.”

Some of the editing from tonight, adding things here and there.

Failing.

If I could have as much talent (and as much success) as Etgar Keret has in just the white part of his pinkie fingernail I would be happy. Reading his new book these days, rereading his other books just like all the time. 

for Ganda-Ganda, this is how I feel about writing tonight. how about you? 

No Pulitzer prize for fiction awarded this year. 

It was between The Pale King by David Foster Wallace, Swamplandia! by Karen Russell, and Train Dreams by Denis Johnson. The votes were all tied up so they gave it to nobody. 

Kneejerk reaction? David Foster Wallace. I know it’s not that kind of contest, but seeing as David Foster Wallace is of the no-longer-eating-tacos-because-he’s-dead variety and both Russell and Johnson can still burrito all they want (and still have plenty of talent and time), imo he ought to clinch it. -pouting- Not that kind of contest… mumble…

I’m writing a story about STRONG FEMALE CHARACTERS, and it makes me think about Kate Beaton. -tears and joy-

Here’s the first part. It’s about getting up to extremely literate mischief. 

Robin tossed a pack of gum on the conveyer belt. There was one pack of gum, two boxes of vaginal douche, and about thirty-six bottles of industrial-grade lye. All we needed was the lye. Maybe Robin needed the gum.

Nobody needed the douche. 

The checkout girl slowly raised her eyes to meet Robin’s.

“You guys melting a body?”

“No, are you?” Robin said, pressing her hip bones against the counter. Her jeans were slung low and tight. The gum was Big Red. She popped it open.

“What are you doin’ ?” Can I come?

“The first rule of Fight Club,” I said, “Is you never talk about Fight Club,” squinting at her name tag, “Becky.”

“Can I come?”

Robin was opening her wallet.

“Do you need to get punched or what?”

“I get off at 10.”

“It’s 9.”

“I get off at 10.”

…

…

YOUR REIGN OF TERROR IS OVER! YOU COOKIE BAKING BITCH. 

I used the plot of the 2nd Sailor Moon movie as an allusory aside in order to finish a short story.

I have no regrets. Sailor Moon is always the winner.

One of the students in my writing class scares me in an American Psycho sort of way. Like, I’m not going to open the blinds because I’m sort of afraid he’ll be there… staring at me. 

We keep telling the kid he gives really good sociopath in his stories but we’re pretty sure it’s not on purpose. It’s basically what would happen if John Doe from Seven submitted his room full of creepy notebooks for workshop. 

…

After the semester is over I’m giving all of my peers’ rough drafts a viking funeral :I

Can’t brain my think is broken. Spring came today (I even got a little sunburn all over my back) and I feel like I just woke up from a long angsty dream. And now I feel like I can’t write anything serious or angsty or emotions.

So I have decided just to riff and amuse myself. I feel like a lot of times I get good ideas just by writing out stuff that is extremely true for me. So now I’m writing a story around my hate for Tom Bombadil in The Hobbit.

For a really long time after Groucho grew up he would think about Tom Bombadil and feel his skin creeping. There was something about Bombadil, a cheery and singing Santa-Claus-looking character in Tolkien’s Hobbit, that had really freaked him out as a child. Dad would tuck Groucho in most nights, covers pulled almost too taut, and read Tolkien and C.S. Lewis and even sometimes, in the colder months, some nice John Wyndham or Ray Bradbury. 

But even when including all the balls to the wall shit in the sci fi and the horror stories, there wasn’t anything scarier than Tom Bombadil giggling in the forest. It was probably that the character was really aloof. That was probably it. Come to think of it, that’s the worst, isn’t it? People who put on a sweet face and then don’t bat an eye if somebody else tries to murder the shit out of you?

Groucho did not like that Tom Bombadil part of the book and would try to get his dad to skip it whenever the chapter came around. This was probably two or three times a year, since dad always chose the book and dad had a real boner for Tolkien. 

The kid is named Groucho because originally he was going to be a dog. But he’s not. He’s a kid. A story is born. -rainbows-