tHe giAnt'S hOuse

I've got a three-day Sahara over there. Need not worry, will update. I realize none of you might really care 'bout those days but I do. I really want to have something for my grandchildren to snigger over.

Another thing to snigger over: my poetry. Ach, I need to make something concrete and narrative. I hate poetry. I hate poets.

[Oh. Ah, congratulations to Nikay and Fiddlypoopykins. :)]

Aaaaah.

It's just one of those days: me hating writing. Come on, dedicated writer people, I know you wanna yell at me. I'm sorry (no, I'm actually not) but my relationship with Writing is as hellish as any other. It's like Lauren Bacall and Humphrey Bogart, Ava Gardner and that other dude, Lucille Ball and Desi Arnaz, Britney Spears and Kevin Federline. It's love-hate. Lovelovelove when everything falls into place, hatehatehate when nothing is happening.

Sure, give me some Zen shit on it's not always supposed to fall into place. Okay. Fine. And yes, I love even those moments, in a masochistic kind of way. But just the way your blood boils and you want to throw/burn/eat stuff gives you a liquid kind of hate, the kind that makes you want to end things then and there but you know at the farthest part of your heady-weady, that you love this thing, art, craft and you want to spend the rest of your pathetic life with it. But you're still angry. And honest to goodness bitter and so fucked up you feel you can do anything.

All you happy people: Do you understand what anger means?

Oh, fuck, I realize na I didn't make sense.

Basta.

I am poetess. I am fictionista. I am... Oh fuck... late for something.