That’s Lit

The creative writing workshop class that I’m taking is making me feel kinda glad that I didn’t get into the CW masters’ program that I applied for. I forgot how bougie and pretentious it is. THIS specific type of writing is LITERARY, and if you don’t write stuff that falls between these confines than your writing is IRRELEVANT. And those confines are so fucking narrow, and so fucking boring. That’s why I made my specialization poetry in undergrad, because at least you could play around with words there, you could experiment with form and formlessness and create meaning from unexpected images. Like if I had to try and write?? one more?? “Literary” short story?? A boring motherfucking depressing ass slice of life? Hard pass bro. And workshopping the boring, motherfucking depressing ass slice of life stories of my classmates?? Boy! Sorry to hear that you are all unfulfilled in your relationships, and seeking meaning through self-destructive outlets, and that your nicotine stained fingers tremble, as you go to pull the last cigarette from your crumpled pack, swearing, this time, it’s really your last one, and you smoke it as you drive to a young, beautiful woman’s house, and you cheat on your wife with her, and you feel guilty about it, and you blame the young woman for being too irresistible, because she smiled at you when you spoke to her in the grocery store, and you resent her, for telling you your breath tastes like cigarettes, because that’s the same thing your wife always says, and you don’t want to think about your wife while you’re in bed with this hot young mistake, so you put on your pants, and leave without saying another word to her, and you swing by the gas station on your way home to your wife and buy another pack of cigarettes. Like… Sorry to hear about that bro. Sorry to read a billion fucking “literary” stories that follow this exact same bullshit plot, or an incredibly similar bullshit plot. Boo fucking hoo, you’re a sad in-denial misogynist, and your self-insert character is also a sad, in-denial misogynist? what a coincidence! What a fascinating fucking development! Truly, a brilliant piece of literature.

Anyway, thanks for coming to my TED talk about how college creative writing classes actually really stifle creativity and create a culture that mass produces mediocre fucking depressing content that the creators somehow think is edgy, original, and insightful!

I got my new phone today. It’s my b-day present, and I got it activated today. It’s really not much different from my old one at all, but it doesn’t feel like it’s mine yet, if that makes sense. It feels foreign in my hands, not quite right. I feel, suddenly, weirdly attached to my old one. But, I will get over it soon, I’m sure. I haven’t even completely finished setting it up yet. I have all of the primary functions in place, but there are still a lot of secondary functions that I have to get set up. It’s currently at 3% battery, and I’m waiting for it to die so I can give it a nice full charge. It’s white, and I’ve literally never had a white phone before, but I actually think it looks pretty sick. (still, ima get a case for it… cuz… ya know. And also a case might make it feel more like it’s really mine, cuz I always have a case on.)

Still haven’t found out wtf is up with my comprehensive exam, meaning how the fuck and where the fuck I’m supposed to take it. It’s probably best to wait ’till Monday to e-mail my professor about it again?? Idk. Also need to apply for graduation real fast, and for honors society. Like… can’t forget to do those things, or I’ll be fucked. (also have to come up w/ 3 possible topics for my dissertation by next Friday, which I’m a lil nervous about) Alright, it’s getting hella late, I’m guna head up to bed. Peace.



You know how sometimes

The love of your life is snoring

Fully asleep beside you

And you can’t stop thinking about

Pushing a 1.6mm needle

Through the most intimate part

Of their body?

You know how sometimes

One time

You live out your first full day

As a thirty year old person?

You know how sometimes

You don’t want night to come

You don’t want morning to come

Because it will break the bubble

The tender bubble of time

Where you two are all and only

Where questions and trials are held

At bay?


Committing fraud in the evening

All covered in soil

They eat what they eat but

We’re here to destroy

And the bones in the basement

They’re not about us

All these poems are displacement

They’re not about us

But the hollow point is

The howling harrowing hanging part is

Or it’s not and it’s dust

It’s borrowing so much but never enough

For the cooling silk side

The lavender throw

Occluding light with unseasonable snow