Today makes three days I've skipped the gym to let my ankle heal. It just doesn't seem right to limp around that place busting my back or biceps when my ankle is a swollen mess.
I've been sitting here most of the morning going over my old writing, having pulled all of my old notebooks out of storage. I didn't start writing really until I was 17 or 18. My first attempts at poetry were rather crude, relying on clumsy rhyme and about things that only I would care about or even relate to. My use of metaphor and similie was selfish, I was unable to see very far outside of myself. I was lonely and hurt. Full of angst and anger. I cringed while reading some, blushed as I read some, but found a few poems that I was still proud of. I don't remember any more what it was like to be that angry, to be that hurt and wounded by nothing in particular-- just life itself... I had even given myself a nick-name, or I suppose maybe it was just one aspect of myself. I wrote about myself as the "Big ugly nasty." I guess I wasn't high on self-esteem in those days. Notebooks of classroom notes from when I was working on my B.S. in psych with scribblings in the margins and notes. I was bored in class. It's good to see that my head was always running a mile a minute in fifty different directions at once and that this is not a new thing.
I can't believe how many times I wrote "I'm so horny" in the margins of my notes. 
That is fucking funny. Say "yay" for outrageously high levels of testosterone.
My short stories from this period are good though. I think this was before I read Lovecraft, and before his style became an influence. There is so much in these notebooks I'd forgotten when I packed them up and pushed them into a corner in the basement. A letter I'd written but never sent to the girl who took my virginity and broke my heart. A lot of poems and essays I wrote while drinking or drunk. A love letter I wrote to a girl who was my roommate's cousin. She was at Western the same time we were. She was so nice, and she always smiled at me. I had such a crush on her. Old work schedules, old class schedules. Hundreds of short journal entries. I always discount myself, always decide that I am less than what I really am. Is everybody this hard on himself?
At this point, I'd like to apologize to anyone who just read through all that navel gazing hoping to find something meaningful. I'm just rambling and remembering....
I've been sitting here most of the morning going over my old writing, having pulled all of my old notebooks out of storage. I didn't start writing really until I was 17 or 18. My first attempts at poetry were rather crude, relying on clumsy rhyme and about things that only I would care about or even relate to. My use of metaphor and similie was selfish, I was unable to see very far outside of myself. I was lonely and hurt. Full of angst and anger. I cringed while reading some, blushed as I read some, but found a few poems that I was still proud of. I don't remember any more what it was like to be that angry, to be that hurt and wounded by nothing in particular-- just life itself... I had even given myself a nick-name, or I suppose maybe it was just one aspect of myself. I wrote about myself as the "Big ugly nasty." I guess I wasn't high on self-esteem in those days. Notebooks of classroom notes from when I was working on my B.S. in psych with scribblings in the margins and notes. I was bored in class. It's good to see that my head was always running a mile a minute in fifty different directions at once and that this is not a new thing.
I can't believe how many times I wrote "I'm so horny" in the margins of my notes. That is fucking funny. Say "yay" for outrageously high levels of testosterone.
My short stories from this period are good though. I think this was before I read Lovecraft, and before his style became an influence. There is so much in these notebooks I'd forgotten when I packed them up and pushed them into a corner in the basement. A letter I'd written but never sent to the girl who took my virginity and broke my heart. A lot of poems and essays I wrote while drinking or drunk. A love letter I wrote to a girl who was my roommate's cousin. She was at Western the same time we were. She was so nice, and she always smiled at me. I had such a crush on her. Old work schedules, old class schedules. Hundreds of short journal entries. I always discount myself, always decide that I am less than what I really am. Is everybody this hard on himself?
At this point, I'd like to apologize to anyone who just read through all that navel gazing hoping to find something meaningful. I'm just rambling and remembering....
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All of our writing were (in my case, are) still clumsy and full of hate. Thats why most writers started writing, to get it out. Most people are rather hard on them selves. I believe your poem lie is pretty awesome though. I think to my self that all the time.. Pretty words for a pretty lie?