Tuesday, January 25, 2005

Here we go again

With that whole self-loathing thing. It's so tiresom. Really. I started reading a book on writing (and somehow this ends up with self-hate before the end of chapter two--consistantly) since my formal edjumikation came to a screaching hault in the three point five agonizing hours I spent in Professor So-and-so's class listening to him blather on about Dune and Frank Herbert in a strange masterbatory intellectual elitist sort of way. He liked to speek quietly and quickly, stuffing as many 50 point scrabble words as he could into the mix to prove to you how intellectually inferior you were and how your education thus far had failed to prepare you for the likes of such wisdom. The guy was a total douche bag.

(holy freakin' crap that was a long sentence)
I've had other teachers who were intelectual elitist assholes, like the teacher who said I couldn't write about zombies. Not that I couldn't write about them in the manner in which I was writing about them--I couldn't, flat out, write about zombies. Things that go bump in the night arn't 'literary' and all that. Buncha mo-fo's (geeze I'm bitter). However, this particular "special" in-DUH-vidual (thanks Dilbert) was going to be out of town twice, once to go to China during this six week intensive class and wanted us to reschedule the class time for when he'd be in town. Because, y'know, I don't work full fricking time or anything. Hosebag. So that, on top of the thorough skull fucking I'd recieved via him taking the most circutus rout to get to his fricking point caused me to drop that thing real fricking quick.

I've been registered for the fiction writing seminar like 6 times. One I dropped in the middle because I was sick and the teacher was un-understanding of the classes I'd missed, and there was the whole hating on the zombies thing. Other times it didn't work with my work schedule too well, and I wasn't so anxious to be mentally abused by a "literature" freak that I'd try to cut an insane deal with my boss to come in like two hours early so I could go to a damned class during lunch.

Where was I? Who am I? Why am I standing in front of this police box?

Moving right along. So, yeah, I read books about writing. Why? Because *I* am a total douche bag who can't hack the mental rape performed in select circles of academia. At some point all these dudes contradict each other. I figure I'll just consume as much of this stuff as possible then sit down and draw myself a road map between the BS eventually. Slowly through trial and error I'm finding my way.

I was depressed, right? Sorry. I slipped off into Indignate Land. I gotta watch that.

Depression... lets see... I feel like I can't fricking put two words together in an elloquent sort of way that would be appealing. I feel like every sentence is hotdogs and vanilla icecream with a lima bean on top. God, it sounds interesting when I say it that, not the pathetic desperate cry for help that it really is. I have the self esteem of a wilted cucumber begging for the merciful release of the pickle jar. Oh my God, what in the hell did that mean. What I'm saying is "please be nice, my feelings are fragile and I really don't have the balls to show my work to anyone. OH Yeah, and I already know I suck. So, be honest but nice."

So, whatever. I'm doomed. I should go off and become whatever it is that frustrated prose writers become. I know that frustrated playwrights become dramaturgs, which'd be OK except dealing with the artistic elitist assholes that I fled the theatre scene to escape.

Project Vodka=good.


Blogger dON Lee said...

I second that... Vodka = GOOD~

7:43 AM  

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