Tuesday, March 22, 2005

Pink Belly, Fudgy Eyes

I'm supposed to be critiquing a fellow student's story for workshop tomorrow. But I can't, because a) I hate the word 'critiquing', including the action it inveighs and b) I've recently come to the conclusion that one learns nothing from others picking apart stories they themselves would rather wipe their dimpled asses with. Reflexive nouns abound. Reflexive verbs exist.

I can't. I can't. I can't. I can't. I can't. I can't. I can't. I can't. I can't. I can't? I can't!

Yet I can type "I can't" until it starts to look like "Ishtar". Anyone else?

If someone besides Annie Barrett actually reads this, they should immediately go to Diminishing Returns and read Annie's diatribe about Bermuda Shorts and the Navy Which Happens to Be Old.

Josh Homme looks fat and wiggy in the new QOTSA video, yet it doesn't stop me from squeezing my legs together and putting my hand to my throat like a good Southern hen so as to prevent the shrieks of ecstasy I want to throw at his triple chins.

I'm not a writer.

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