I didn't write yesterday because I was wretchedly busy with classes and then had my creative writing seminar last night. And then it snowed, which was mildly exciting to Matt and me as we are the kind of people who don't spend the winter months wishing that it were 100 degrees. Seriously. People like that piss me off. We are all older than seven--you should be used to the seasons by now. I mean, there are much bigger things to worry about than the weather, which is something none of us can change, so should not even be considered. Seriously. With all the time people spend watching the weather channel and goddamned Wavy 10, we could probably stage a bloodless coup and make this into a socialist state where at least you could go to the damn doctor without having to sale off your first born. Seriously.
So anyway. As I mentioned before, I had creative writing last night, which was good. Really good. Everyone liked my story, which made me happy, but also made me feel like a real heel as I have said (and typed) some pretty bitchy things about their respective works. Oh well. Especially this one girl, whose first installment was godawfully predictable and very unbelievable, but then wrote me a whole page of favorable, smile inspiring comments. I am happy, and have decided to gain some positive karma by returning the favor and not writing "What the fuck are you talking about?" on my peers' papers (not that I ever did that to start out with, but, well, you know).
I also realized that those in my creative writing class are sublime people (most more than sublime, if there is such a thing) compared with the drones who inhabit my Terrorism in Lit class. Now, don't get me wrong. There are a few reasonably intelligent, analytical people in there. But they don't speak. The people who do talk are given to using words they do not understand--Hell, that no one probably truly understands--and saying the most pretentious things. Case in point: two girls who sit in the front are talking about Dostoevsky and how, damn that Fyodor, his chapters all end in cliffhangers that make you want to keep reading. All right ladies. First off, everyone, including writers who are a lot less talented than Dostoevsky, use cliffhangers at the end of their chapters. IT'S CALLED GOOD, ENGAGING WRITING, GENIUS!!! Further, the fact that you have read Dostoevsky is not as interesting as you think it is. You are sitting in a classroom full of people who pay good money to be thought of as well-read, so the fact that you have read him is not only uninteresting, it is dreadfully average. And the fact that you are talking about it so that I can hear it in the back row is utterly, pretentiously annoying. God.
And then there are Existential Guy and Irony Guy, two people who must pepper every comment they make with the words "existential" and "irony." These are both good words, but seriously, not every work of literature is existentialist or ironic. Oh, and look up "irony." It is ironic that what you say is ironic, is not actually able to be defined as true irony. Seriously. Learn to read, bastards. And that's all I have to say about that.
Yeah, it's a rant. Sorry. I had to get it off of my chest. I feel better now.
And I know that this is getting long, but I have one more thing: I think I have a mental disorder. Seriously. I am obsessed with buying books. I have four bookshelves in my tiny apartment, and they are all full but a huge one in the living room, which has about one shelf of space left, but which I originally thought would stay empty for a while. And the thing is, I buy books knowing that I have not read others that I have bought. I buy them on the off chance that I will read them someday, but if I read at a feverish pace for the next five years, I probably could not get them all done. But all I can think of is buying other ones that I hear professors talk about or whatever. I wonder if I could get medicated for this. I mean, I wonder if this is an actual disease that I could be fashionably suffering from. I wonder if I could use it to get away with crime. I mean, could I kill someone and have some gifted litigator say, "Your honor, at the time of her arrest, this poor wayward child was found with a debit card and three volumes of Edith Wharton, not to mention the Dave Eggers she had just purchased. She is obviously suffering from a horrible, debilitating illness." Because if sex addiction is an illness, book buying addiction should too. I can just see Matt weeping on Oprah's couch someday on a very special episode where they show me coming down from my high. Dear God.
Well, I should go. I need to work on my novella, which is now titled Velvet Elvis, and is going to be in total first person. Weird, huh? My professor demands it (well, not demands, I guess). Oh well. First person is hard because it's so revealing and...oh, why do you care? Sorry.
Have a good un. And today, as you go through life, try nnot to say the word "irony." It will make the world a better place.
So anyway. As I mentioned before, I had creative writing last night, which was good. Really good. Everyone liked my story, which made me happy, but also made me feel like a real heel as I have said (and typed) some pretty bitchy things about their respective works. Oh well. Especially this one girl, whose first installment was godawfully predictable and very unbelievable, but then wrote me a whole page of favorable, smile inspiring comments. I am happy, and have decided to gain some positive karma by returning the favor and not writing "What the fuck are you talking about?" on my peers' papers (not that I ever did that to start out with, but, well, you know).
I also realized that those in my creative writing class are sublime people (most more than sublime, if there is such a thing) compared with the drones who inhabit my Terrorism in Lit class. Now, don't get me wrong. There are a few reasonably intelligent, analytical people in there. But they don't speak. The people who do talk are given to using words they do not understand--Hell, that no one probably truly understands--and saying the most pretentious things. Case in point: two girls who sit in the front are talking about Dostoevsky and how, damn that Fyodor, his chapters all end in cliffhangers that make you want to keep reading. All right ladies. First off, everyone, including writers who are a lot less talented than Dostoevsky, use cliffhangers at the end of their chapters. IT'S CALLED GOOD, ENGAGING WRITING, GENIUS!!! Further, the fact that you have read Dostoevsky is not as interesting as you think it is. You are sitting in a classroom full of people who pay good money to be thought of as well-read, so the fact that you have read him is not only uninteresting, it is dreadfully average. And the fact that you are talking about it so that I can hear it in the back row is utterly, pretentiously annoying. God.
And then there are Existential Guy and Irony Guy, two people who must pepper every comment they make with the words "existential" and "irony." These are both good words, but seriously, not every work of literature is existentialist or ironic. Oh, and look up "irony." It is ironic that what you say is ironic, is not actually able to be defined as true irony. Seriously. Learn to read, bastards. And that's all I have to say about that.
Yeah, it's a rant. Sorry. I had to get it off of my chest. I feel better now.
And I know that this is getting long, but I have one more thing: I think I have a mental disorder. Seriously. I am obsessed with buying books. I have four bookshelves in my tiny apartment, and they are all full but a huge one in the living room, which has about one shelf of space left, but which I originally thought would stay empty for a while. And the thing is, I buy books knowing that I have not read others that I have bought. I buy them on the off chance that I will read them someday, but if I read at a feverish pace for the next five years, I probably could not get them all done. But all I can think of is buying other ones that I hear professors talk about or whatever. I wonder if I could get medicated for this. I mean, I wonder if this is an actual disease that I could be fashionably suffering from. I wonder if I could use it to get away with crime. I mean, could I kill someone and have some gifted litigator say, "Your honor, at the time of her arrest, this poor wayward child was found with a debit card and three volumes of Edith Wharton, not to mention the Dave Eggers she had just purchased. She is obviously suffering from a horrible, debilitating illness." Because if sex addiction is an illness, book buying addiction should too. I can just see Matt weeping on Oprah's couch someday on a very special episode where they show me coming down from my high. Dear God.
Well, I should go. I need to work on my novella, which is now titled Velvet Elvis, and is going to be in total first person. Weird, huh? My professor demands it (well, not demands, I guess). Oh well. First person is hard because it's so revealing and...oh, why do you care? Sorry.
Have a good un. And today, as you go through life, try nnot to say the word "irony." It will make the world a better place.
posted by Southern Belle at 10:11 AM
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