being a writer sucks. you burrow yourself in a room, in front of your desk or in your bed, breathing foul, dry, cold wintry air through your mouth because it hurts to breathe through your nose after a hangover (the wind knocks you down from your nostril to the spot between your forehead and right eye). if i could choose any profession in life, it would certainly not be the writer, artist, musician type. i mean, good god, really, who wants coffee as a lover, drugs as paramour, and a keyboard for a husband? not i sire, not i. i want sunshine! i want the moon! i want mountains by the sea!
i want homework to magically vanish, but when they do i'm not sure what to do with myself, because after the work there's applications to reality. lately, my life has become one big ellipsis. right now, my head swells like a grapefruit.
please give me an eskimo kiss.