February 20th, 2008


late night post of ranty DOOOOOOOOOM!

I wish I was snarky, but I'm really not.

This revelation came upon me as I feebly attempted to watch tonight's American Idol with the half hearted intention that I would do on going commentary via my livejournal filled with hilarious quick and witty, sometimes catty and ever so insightful comments about the contenders. But then I realized that I am not snarky - I pale in comparison to the amazing skills of some of my fellow authors on my friends list and so I gave up.

That, and I need to emphasis on the feeble attempt at watching American Idol. I stumbled onto the conclusion that I really just don't care about the show. Actually, I think I realized this before tonight when I was shocked to find out that it was still going on. Perhaps this is because most of my TV watching nights have been replaced with smoopy time with my hunka hunka burning man love, but nevertheless, I just don't care.

Also - after seven years, I am sick of the fact that the contestants keep getting younger.

My roommate, Kevin, was kind enough to point out the fact that, in truth, it is I who is getting older, but I am going to reject that seeing how it's going to take me almost four years before I reach thirty, and therefore is not an issue. But I'm serious here folks, the guys on this show looked like maybe, just maybe, they found their first pubic hair yesterday. I have issues with this. In seven years time, American Idol will be populated with a bunch of fetuses floating in tanks.

I will have none of this, I tell you.


The lack of New COllege has left a big, gaping void in my soul. Not so much in the camaraderie of my cohorts, the support of my instructors, or the fact that I feel like I'm doing more with my life than working in a broom closet while the rest of the world, you know, grows up and shit. No - the void there is left from the lack of my writers workshop.

I have talked before about Felicia and her amazing fist of iron control, but what she really helped us do was to take apart an analyze the stories that were presented to us in workshop. We stopped saying "this was good" and used each one as an example of "is this a real story? does it have the qualities that make it a story? would you buy this? why does this work or not work?"

You know, the technical stuff. The stuff that goes beyond the delicious praise gravy that most of us feasted upon in college, inflating our egos until they were the size of small elephants, tempting us with that wonderful dream that, why yes - we too could become published authors and oh, it would be so easy.

With out her class, I find myself digging into every day conversations, every day stories that my friends tell me as they attempt to craft their own little stories, making their lives seem interesting like we all do. Halfway through their stories, my mind wanders and I start to pick it apart, I get bored, I get frustrated. THIS IS NOT THE WAY A STORY IS SUPPOSED TO BE TOLD!!! TOO MUCH PLOT EXPOSITION! YOUR BUILD UP IS BORING AND PREDICTABLE!!! I AM YOUR AUDIENCE AND YOU ARE LOSING ME! I WOULD NOT HAVE BOUGHT THIS IF THIS WAS A BOOK!

Of course, this is horribly unfair of me to do because they are not attempting to sell their lives as a story, but when they start talking I find that my shoulder devil perks up, pulls at my ear lobe and begs, BEGS me to let him go. Meanwhile, my shoulder angel is kind of shuffling his feet, looking down at his sandals, holding his little halo in his hand and mumbling that maybe Shoulder Devil has a point and oh - he thinks he left his clothes in the washer and he needs to go rotate his laundry.

This is not healthy.


By the way, for those interested, my shoulder devil's anthropomorphic personification is currently that of Wolverine from The X-Men dressed up as a high school cheer leader. Every time I think a horribly technical and analytical thought, he does a little jump and waves his pompoms in the air.

Pearl, I hope you appreciate this. I really hope you do.


It's cold here. Granted, it's not as cold as it is in the midwest, but it's still cold. Cold enough that it took me about a good half hour to get out of my bed to use the bathroom and then come out here and write this post that has been eating away at my brain as I laid in bed, trying hard not to think about how badly I needed to pee because that meant crawling out of the warm, protective, nurturing comfort of my blankets and out into the cold and dark UNIVERSE that was beyond (meaning - everything beyond my bed is bad).

Cold is Cold, my friends. And lack of sun makes Meg a very grumpy person.


Shit, I think my inner five year old has come back, and she is SO READY to stamp her foot at any cause. Oh, oh, wait, here it comes folks....