Weariness.
One.
Word.
Paragraphs.
For class last night, went to see a writer named Lydia Something-or-other read some of her work. She wasn't as bad as I'd feared she'd be. While I was there, I briefly saw a girl I know named Sarah. Then I noticed Ha in the corner--I walked over, and sat next to Ha, so I had the floor.
I think the sight of me guilted Ha into reading my novel finally which led to late night e-mail exchanges the gist of which were that Ha doesn't think I'm a very good writer. Which could mean a number of things, certainly one of which is that I am in fact not a very good writer and that I therefore have a great deal of misplaced confidence in myself. Which is actually a hard pill to swallow after spending so many years on something.
Hmph. Guess I'll keep on truckin'. It's not like I have anything better to do and I sorta think being in the dark about yourself is a big part of life. Yay.
Yesterday, I also finished my latest in my series of pictures of girls I know wearing Slave Leia clothes. This one's of Trisa and she seems to feel it's a good likeness.
Shall I draw more often? Write less? Comic books . . . I suppose that's the avenue I was really meant to explore. I feel like a little dragon who's constantly getting his tail burnt off.
Well. This'll probably be the last post from me for a couple days. Trisa and I are going to Coachella for the weekend. That is, if nothing horrendous and unexpected happens . . .
"I'm happy, hope you're happy too." -David Bowie
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