bionicfemme

I was irresponsible today. Instead of going to my Spanish class, I hung out with my creative writing professor for an hour and we talked about life/things we think are funny. We talked about how to improve my writing and I think it rekindled my desire to write. She talked about how much she liked my most recent short story and how it made her laugh hysterically in a coffeeshop, and she was completely alone so everybody thought she was just some crazy lady laughing to herself.

I have new purpose now. I am an artist, how did I forget this? It's like how the transformed Lady Amalthea forgets she was ever a mythical creature in "The Last Unicorn." She forgets the magic inside her and wants to swallow that up with a mortal love for Prince Lir. I think I have been doing that in trying to find a stable girlfriend. I concentrated so much on finding someone who wanted to be committed to me that I forgot about my artistry, my ambition to become a short story writer to rival Flannery O'Connor. This is what is important, now. I must stay focused.

I thought about the way I used to write, with such breathless passion, so much more mysticism than my present first person narratives that make fun of everything. Although I do admit that I times I think they are funny (perhaps a little truthfully painful) I forgot about the childlike Imagist portraits I would paint of sirens and nymphs and rusalkas. I must go back to this, revist how and why I wrote these things. I cannot do this with a girlfriend or any sort of romantic partner. I MUST focus.

How can I discern true life, light, and beauty if i'm staring at the center of some woman's crotch in front of my face? True, life, light, and beauty exists in that scenario, but I want to move on to bigger, better things. I must meditate and perfect my artistry.

I don't want Stacey or Josie or Angela or Christina or anybody else right now, I think I want everyone to back off. Stacey especially has been pissing me off, she acts like some ghettofabulous pimp now that she knows I like her. Today she was talking about some guy "Licking her balls" and I said "Hey man, you don't have any." She said "If I did, he would lick them, and you'd be first on my list, bitch."

The 19th century prude that lives within me quickly countered by saying "Oh dear, it isn't proper to call a girl on her honor, not proper at all to transgress so upon a lady." And I am. I'm a fucking lady. I couldn't believe she said that. So when we were talking about previous sexual experiences she said she won the "slut award" and I said "fabulous, did you win the biggest bitch award at the same time?" and shot her an evil, green-eyed glare. She shut up and turned away.

Hmmph. Enough, I grow weary of this. I will become a great writer, I will become the characters and live their lives, I will be a hundred beautiful women whenever I want, I will find my perfect lover in my mind, i'll construct her with a pen and piece of paper.