liFe iS a hiGhwAy

This is weird. Whitney Houston is wailing in the background and I am unabashedly wailing right along with her. And I am in a public place. This is terminal.

Anyway.

I haven't done a lick of my short story. Sure, I've got stacks of beginnings with no middles and ends in sight but those don't really count. I know I'm worrying about it too much, thinking too fatalistically blah blah blah. I'm taking this too seriously, blowing it all out of proportion, blah blah blah. Whatever. But I sort of like this pressure. It makes my characters crazier than usual.

Oh, and I've been reading Lakambini A. Sitoy and the literary booger complex has really dug in my system. Yehey. Haha.

Am I the only one having a literary snit, fellow fictionistas?

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I think I am carrying a grudge. I can't let go of the things you said. I know I should shrug them off like I've done with every other thing you've said but this is just one insult too many. Oh, hell. Merry Christmas, friends.