I'm not dead, just busy sorting the affairs of work and dumb-shit ex-girlfriends
Mood:
one step, two steps, getting closer, getting close
I'm writing from the faculty lounge in the Community College of Philadelphia (CCP) which provides seperate computers and bathrooms for its faculty. Neat, huh?
This is the final "no-crap" agreement between me and the God of Work.
2 classes of Comp 101 at Widener University
1 class of Comp 102 here at CCP
1 class of Intellectual Heritage at Temple University
I've just found out that I can once again sign up for health and dental benefits, which is something I've lacked for far too long. It'll be nice to know that I can see a doctor again for pains and stab wounds instead of guzzling a fifth of J.D. to kill the pain.
Still corresponding with the SF writer who thinks I write strange stories because I can't write "real" ones. It's very tragic-comic because the same things he's saying to me are close to the things I've said to avant garde poets. The unfortunate thing is that said SF writer has only seen a total of 967 words of my frightening new work - and already judged it unsatisfactory. In the most recent email, he ragged on me for my explicit sexual content. Now I'm really torques because sexual content is NOT an avant garde matter.
Contrary to what many SF fans and writers realize, sexual situations are a large part of life and do not deserve to be glossed over for the sake of crap words like "decency" and "morality."
As if sex were something only the most experienced and capable writers should tackle.
His ahnd my little tit-for-tat will continue. Bad press is better than no press I suppose.
Meanwhile, my Los Angeles ex-girlfriend is avoiding me. God only knows what shit she's gotten herself into. She always such a simpleton, just sitting at home all the time watching TV being scared of life. At least she could do something cool, like develop a heroine addiction. (I hope that's not too racy a theme for you SF readers!)
That's all for now,
SIGNING OFF FROM BEERLIGHT
This is the final "no-crap" agreement between me and the God of Work.
2 classes of Comp 101 at Widener University
1 class of Comp 102 here at CCP
1 class of Intellectual Heritage at Temple University
I've just found out that I can once again sign up for health and dental benefits, which is something I've lacked for far too long. It'll be nice to know that I can see a doctor again for pains and stab wounds instead of guzzling a fifth of J.D. to kill the pain.
Still corresponding with the SF writer who thinks I write strange stories because I can't write "real" ones. It's very tragic-comic because the same things he's saying to me are close to the things I've said to avant garde poets. The unfortunate thing is that said SF writer has only seen a total of 967 words of my frightening new work - and already judged it unsatisfactory. In the most recent email, he ragged on me for my explicit sexual content. Now I'm really torques because sexual content is NOT an avant garde matter.
Contrary to what many SF fans and writers realize, sexual situations are a large part of life and do not deserve to be glossed over for the sake of crap words like "decency" and "morality."
As if sex were something only the most experienced and capable writers should tackle.
His ahnd my little tit-for-tat will continue. Bad press is better than no press I suppose.
Meanwhile, my Los Angeles ex-girlfriend is avoiding me. God only knows what shit she's gotten herself into. She always such a simpleton, just sitting at home all the time watching TV being scared of life. At least she could do something cool, like develop a heroine addiction. (I hope that's not too racy a theme for you SF readers!)
That's all for now,
SIGNING OFF FROM BEERLIGHT
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