I want to write a novel.

I have always had dreams of grandeur that starred me as a handsomely successful author or artist or even an artist that illustrates their own… novel? So my dreams weren’t particularly concrete. But, I have to admit, that writing these journal entries sparks hope in me that I will be a writer. I really feel it. Straight out of an overly dramatic Buffy episode, I know inside that “I am not evil, but good [at writing].” How do I know it? Years of encouragement in elementary school (I think I mastered the art of legible handwriting prematurely) and of course, I have a really big fan. She’s always snooping me out and reading whatever I write. Praise from an unbiased source is always heartening. Of course, I wouldn’t exactly call my mother unbiased, but she’s heaps supportive.
Of course there’s also the undeniable reality that I just sense these positive I-can-write-well vibes when I’m desperate to procrastinate and the house is clean. I have a conversation with myself that goes something like this:

ANGEL: You should do your homework now, sweety.
DEVIL: Homework is best done at the last minute; a memoir of your life is urgent.
ANGEL: This is nearly the last minute.
DEVIL: Aha, but it is not the very last minute. Plus, if the creative juices are flowing SQUEEZE, because you’re going to make it big as a writer and then no one will care how you did on that little teensy tiny irrelevant term paper.
ANGEL: Are you kidding me? You a writer!? I think you have a better chance of getting to bed at a reasonable hour the night before your term paper is due! [insert some scoffing]
DEVIL: Hey! For a good guy, you’re not very encouraging. It’s settled then. Time to channel all this anger into an angsty blog and feel good about creative indulgences.

Well, at least I am not my tone death mother who played the guitar, but shit, I am the singer who never performs. Lord! Here my prayers and cut out my vocal box of writing (and while you’re at it, can you do my term paper?). In Jesus’ name, Amen.

Fucking fuckers.

I like some words. Fuck is the only word in the English language that can be used nicely in the middle of a word or phrase. Police-fucking-sirens. Light-fucking-switches. Bliz-fucking-zard. Plus, it feels good to use. My mom told me this story about her alleged hippy years. She and some fellow daisy wearing youngster went to a concert of some still-legendary musicians. The between song banter by the band was powerful. It commanded the crowd into a chant. Remember, these are the people from the time of the California cult age. Anyways, lack of self-will aside, the band had hundreds chanting F-U-C-K. My mom, take this with a grain of salt (or whole table spoon, as she likes on her boiled eggs) suggests that this was the first time many of them had ever used the word. Neat story and instead of making the F-word more sacred to me, saying ‘fuck’ makes me feel empowered by an imagined ancient group of first wave feminists.