rock'n'roll sickness
i'm sick. sick wit da blog compulsion. sick wit da cotton head. sick wit sore troat.
Q: where do polaks plant their trees?
A: between 2 and 4.
(that's for all the old school polaks out there. tell your neighbor; he'll love it.)
aaaaaaaaaarh, WHY must something so silly hurt so BAAAAAD?! (talking about the sore throat, not the polishness.) i'm sick with procrastination. just a few days left and i gotta bust out the letter of intent for the grad degree. you know, you play better sport when you're sick. do you think and write better too? my fear is the woozy wall modulations and floor girations that take the edge off and loosen the performance anxiety and the muscles in the one case does not offer the same effect (affect?) in the other case. blaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah.
stumbled upon another writer that makes it look all rock'n'roll easy [gotcha, rick]. debra monroe: the source of trouble.
how do these fuckers do it? and why am i wining about it? i recall bukowski retelling the story about how some kid sidled up to him at a bar and wanted to interview him to find out how to be a writer. bukowski tells him something like "fuck off and write something."
old bastards. we're going to be crusty like that one day. won't have any patience for those who don't get it. presumably, hopefully, possibly, pleeeeeeese, we will get it. at lease some of the time. at least when it matters. at least once in a while.
or, at the very least, we'll get it after we've gone the long way around and are looking back saying "what the hell d'i do that for?" i'm looking forward to laughing about it then.
till then, tho, i gotta try to take myself to sleep so i can try not to take myself, or the rest of it, too seriously for what's left of the night.
rock on, bloggers/readers/writers/rock'n'rollers....
Q: where do polaks plant their trees?
A: between 2 and 4.
(that's for all the old school polaks out there. tell your neighbor; he'll love it.)
aaaaaaaaaarh, WHY must something so silly hurt so BAAAAAD?! (talking about the sore throat, not the polishness.) i'm sick with procrastination. just a few days left and i gotta bust out the letter of intent for the grad degree. you know, you play better sport when you're sick. do you think and write better too? my fear is the woozy wall modulations and floor girations that take the edge off and loosen the performance anxiety and the muscles in the one case does not offer the same effect (affect?) in the other case. blaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah.
stumbled upon another writer that makes it look all rock'n'roll easy [gotcha, rick]. debra monroe: the source of trouble.
how do these fuckers do it? and why am i wining about it? i recall bukowski retelling the story about how some kid sidled up to him at a bar and wanted to interview him to find out how to be a writer. bukowski tells him something like "fuck off and write something."
old bastards. we're going to be crusty like that one day. won't have any patience for those who don't get it. presumably, hopefully, possibly, pleeeeeeese, we will get it. at lease some of the time. at least when it matters. at least once in a while.
or, at the very least, we'll get it after we've gone the long way around and are looking back saying "what the hell d'i do that for?" i'm looking forward to laughing about it then.
till then, tho, i gotta try to take myself to sleep so i can try not to take myself, or the rest of it, too seriously for what's left of the night.
rock on, bloggers/readers/writers/rock'n'rollers....
posted by stacy muszynski at 10:18 PM
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