This is really starting to burn me. I feel drizzles of pain on my neck, falling from the teardrops of fire that are escalating my wall of symbolic impotency that I sense from my INCAPABILITY TO WRITE A FRENCH ESSAY.
Why can't I do it? Okay, so it's a lit essay, big deal. French essays, lit essays, French lit essays, I've done that! But again nothing is making sense.
Ugh. This really sucks. I'm thinking comma when I want to write a period. I'm thinking details when I want to think thesis. I'm thinking English when I want to think in French. Soooo it gooooes. Stop howling at me, Vonnegut. Away, scat, away from me, I tell you, or I'll have your neck. Or is that head?
Ugh, I just erased a paragraph from this blog, because I totally don't want to say that. Am I being too perfect? Doesn't the best stuff come from imperfection?
I guess, maybe. But I'm not coming upon any new epiphanies.
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1 comment:
hahaha you wrote that just a day before kurt vonnegut died. or maybe two.
so. if you're doing something that you think so be something else, do that something else. come back to the rest later.
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