Below are the 20 most recent journal entries recorded in Kalki The Destroyer's LiveJournal:

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Monday, September 22nd, 2008
9:11 pm	Jack Said There'd Be Days Like These So. Let's see. I'm on draft three of my novel. The first draft went by pretty fast, being essentially a warm-up that had nothing to do with the final product. The second draft was a good, solid fight; another necessary portion of the creative development process. Now we're on draft three. This is for real now - we're trying to finish the novel here. So you can imagine my consternation when my laptop died last week, utterly destroying some four hundred pages of accumulated work, plus two years of journal entries and almost the entirety of my unpublished short fiction. The first and second draft are both toast, as well as seventy pages of the third draft. To answer the obvious question, no, I did not extensively back the thing up. Most of the short fiction is either on flash drives or in my email inbox. The journal entries are gone, but that was an extremely self-absorbed phase, so fuck 'em - I don't really want to remember it, and if I ever write an autobiography, I'll just lie shamelessly. The first and second draft are a real loss, but whatever. The third draft pretty much stands on its own, so I don't need the earlier mock-ups. And most of the third draft is scattered throughout my notebooks, so we're not exactly fucked here. Still. I'm fucking bent. I just have SO FAR TO GO yet. Even before the crash, my deadline was coming off the rails - it looked progressively more unlikely that I'd have this thing in the hands of interested literary agents by November 1st. Now, even with the insane hours I'm keeping, I'm going to be lucky if I've got a completed third draft by then; submitting it to anyone in 2008 is going to take a miracle. In any case, my friend Koren recently got a brand-new laptop, and so has been kind enough to donate her old one to The Cause. So I'm gonna transfer some shit and just do what I can, I guess. The usual obsessiveness will get me through. (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Thursday, July 17th, 2008
12:55 pm	Update So I'm on Draft 2 of this goddamn novel. Eighty pages in. It looks like we'll be wrapping up this draft before August 15th. Then I'm going to take some acid. And then I'll start the third draft. Draft four will probably be the one I submit. Stay tuned. (Comment on this)
Saturday, July 5th, 2008
9:40 pm	Just So's Ya Know... THE PAGE COUNT STANDS AT 51! (Comment on this)
Thursday, July 3rd, 2008
10:58 pm	Wow, Is This Still Up? The burning ambition of my life, since at least age 13, has been to write and publish a novel. My first attempt at this was not fortuitous. Sitting in my room at age 15, I decided to write a fantasy novel that harvested only half of the genre's cliches, as opposed to the customary 80%. Three pages in, I pulled out a bottle of gin, put Bob Marley on the stereo, and decided that was enough for today. I then promptly forgot about it. Next came "The Wearing of The Green," the tale of a drunken bureaucrat in Boston who decides to fill his empty soul with patriotism. This was fun and all, but dead dull and completely cliche. I serialized maybe ten pages at Life Is Annoying before I called it quits. After I quit drinking, "Atrophy" briefly consumed my life. This, ye readers may recall, was the tragic tale of one of the oil crash's survivors, watching as all the things that mattered to him - human civilization, his best friend, the love of his life, and finally his humanity - were slowly torn away. This got to page 41 before I got tired of writing in a central Iowan accent and blathering on about what was, to be honest, a little too similar to my actual mental state at the time. That's been in it for novels thus far. Occasionally I sit down and resolve to just WRITE one, fully believing that a spontaneous act of will can somehow materialize something worth an advance check and quarterly royalties. There follows a few minutes where I struggle to write whatever inane crap comes to mind, and ultimately give up. Cue self-loathing and depression. Short stories have been more lucrative. The last year has seen the publication of another one of my stories, "Morning in Shaitan's America," as well as a poetry spot in Furrow. That makes three publications, which is my magic number; I always said that three publications would be the milestone, the point where I know that I'm actually a goddamn WRITER and not another pompous dilettante. I've gained a little confidence in my writing, as much because I could compare myself to the hacks in my writing classes as because of the publications. So I set myself to the honest task of trying to just be the best damn short-story writer I could be, and damn the torpedoes, the hell with fame, hipster cliche, etc., etc. Then, about two months ago, I was sitting down at the campus computer lab, doing the fifth round of edits on another short story. This one was promising; something I could send to Zoetrope or somebody big like that. Maybe make a little cash off it. Zoetrope pays 1500 for rights and a movie option - that's the silver tuna when you write short stories. And then, like a velvet thunderclap, an idea occurred to me. I giggled. The giggle got a little louder, until the other kids in the computer lab shot me a glare. I shut up, and put the idea aside. I had edits to do, after all. I finished my edits, and was surprised to find the giggle idea popping back into my head. I went out for a cigarette, and as I puffed away in the darkness outside the EMS building, the idea morphed into a scenario. Characters presented themselves. Logistical difficulties jumped out at me, and the gears in my head began grinding away at how to solve them. Returning to the computer lab, I decided to outline the idea in an email and send it to myself. No committment there; if I was bored one day, then hey, I'd have something to scribble on. Maybe I'd get a short story out of it. And then, a few weeks back, I saw that email, still sitting in my inbox. It got me giggling again. So I sat down to write, and write, and write. I eventually abandoned the idea of squeezing this thing into a short story, and admitted it to myself: I am writing a goddamn novel. I bailed out of work four hours early tonight. Forty bucks down the drain, but whatever - I went straight to the coffeeshop, editted everything I had, and wrote another few pages on top of it. Atrophy, my most serious previous effort, topped out at 41 pages. Tonight, my new page count stands at 42. I'll do another three or four tomorrow between work shifts. Saturday is my first day off in two weeks. After a full edit of everything thus far, I plan to dedicate the afternoon and evening to fresh material. I'd conservatively estimate an output of 15 pages by nightfall on saturday. Once the first draft is done, I'll do a second. Then probably a third. I expect the first three chapters to be polished enough to send proposals to agents by September 1st. I want to have a finished, perfect project by November 1st. I want to have an agent shopping this thing around to publishers by that same date. And I want to have this fucker sold, with my John Hancock on somebody's dotted line, by January 1st, 2009. Cross your fingers, gang. The page count stands at 42! Current Music: Ludo - Love Me Dead (4 Comments |Comment on this)
Friday, January 18th, 2008
9:12 pm	Friday Night Okay, so... I think I've reached some kind of coffeeshop bum apotheosis. It's my day off, so I've been down here since noon. Spent some time writing (raw) and some time looking for a job that pays better (less raw). On the upside, I just got a phone call from someone who wants to interview me, so score one there. Around five Ben and I decided to smoke some grass. We stopped by my pal Alby's house, as I hadn't seen him in a couple months. Turns out he quit his job as a DJ at a strip club, broke up with his stripper girlfriend, and has been paying the bills by selling phones on eBay. We smoked him a bowl, wished him luck, and went on our merry way. Boredom soon set in... the coffeeshop had zero women in it, and Lyndzi's out of the country until next week. So me and Dom talk complete gibberish for about an hour. Brandon showed up, having a terrible day, so we resolved to go get some more weed. I purchased a ten sack from Valentine the Magical Negro, and we spent some time around the gas station. Sean was having a terrible nght himself, and may or may not have been on coke. I dunno... the signals were mixed. After giving him a smoke break, we smoked a blunt and returned to the coffeeshop. Ran out one more time score Callie and Sarah a case of beer. Visualize a scrawny young man staggering across Brady Street, with two petite girls clinging to him for warmth... an odd site. Then we walk straight up to the liquor store, and they hand me twenty bucks. Very delighted that there were no police driving by just then. So now I'm sitting down at the coffeeshop with Ben, Callie, Sarah, Marie, Ashley, and some hipster guy who just showed up. This could rule or suck. (Comment on this)
Monday, November 26th, 2007
12:46 pm	Stolen Survey!!! WITH 2007 COMING TO AN END 1. Have you had any relationships this year? Yeah. 2. Have you had your birthday yet? Yes 3. Kissed two people in the same night? Yup... and it was fucking awkward. 4. Been on a diet? Nope 5. Pulled an all nighter? Yes 6. Drank Starbucks? Nope 7. Went Camping? Nope 8. Bought something(s)? Well, duh 9. Met someone special? Heh, yeah. 10. Been out of state? Just recently 12. What are you thinking about? How I'm going to get through my last round of finals. ___________________________________________________________ RECENTLY: 1.) Hugged someone? Yes 2.) Slept in someone elses bed? Nope 3.) Got a job? I have a job. 4.) Loaned out money? Yes 5.) Gotten in a car accident? No 6.) Gone over your mobile phone bill? No 7.) Been called a fucker? Every day ___________________________________________________________ LAST : Last person you hugged? Katie, or maybe Callie. Hard to say. Last person to call you? Desmond When was the last time you felt stupid? Probably, like, twenty seconds ago. Who did you last yell at? A homeless guy spare-changing in the lot What did you do last night? Got high with Desmond, Tim and Danny, then watched them make terrifying electronic music. ___________________________________________________________ TEN FACTS : 01. Hometown? Cedar Rapids, Iowa 02. Natural hair color? Brown 03. Initials? JLN 04. Hair style: Covered by a hat right now 06. Height: 5'11" 07. Pets: None, sadly 08. Mood: Hopeful? 09. Where would you rather be: Newton, Illinois. 10. What was the last thing you drank? Bawls Energy Drink ___________________________________________________________ TEN THINGS ABOUT YOUR LOVE LIFE: 01. Have you ever been in love? Several times. 02. Do you believe in love? Well, dur. 03. Why did your LAST relationship fail? I don't think "fail" is really appropriate... we were in the process of falling for each other, and then she had to move home. Sucks, but what can ya do? 04. Have you ever been heartbroken? Sure. 05. Have you ever broken someone's heart: Yes. 06. Have you ever fallen for your best friend? Twice. 07. Have you ever loved someone but never told them? The circumstances forbade it. 08. Are you afraid of commitment? "Fear of committment" is a myth... though you might be afraid of committing to a particular person. 10. Have you had more than 5 different serious relationships in your life? I think I've had exactly five, actually. ___________________________________________________________ 4 EMOTIONS 01. Are you missing someone right now? Yes. 02. Are you happy? Not really. 03. Are you eating anything? Just ate. 04. Do you like someone right now? I don't, which kinda sucks. I need a new crush to even my existence out a little. (Comment on this)
Thursday, October 18th, 2007
11:58 am	Raw So - I've been sending out resumes, because I figure that I'm 22, and should probably be making more than $7.65 an hour. The first ones went out Monday, and by Tuesday night I had a callback from Avalon Advertising, an ad agency in town that does copy for local entertainment and sports events. So I called them back, and long story short, I have an interview at two o'clock. This job would be AWESOME. Their pay for entry-level positions is generally between eleven and fifteen dollars an hour. I'm hoping they'll hook me up with one of their copywriter positions, because writing ad copy is phenomenal work if you can get it, and once I make a few contacts in the business, I can score extra cash in grad school by freelancing. I'm not actually sure what they want me to do - this is a preliminary interview, so they're probably deciding for themselves where I'd fit in. Regardless, I've got a bitchin' outfit, a neatly-tied Double Windsor, and a fresh copy of my portfolio... wish me luck! (3 Comments |Comment on this)
Tuesday, October 9th, 2007
4:26 pm	Sweetness My story, "Morning in Shaitan's America," has been published by State 30 Media Collective. Check me out at: www.state30.com This is probably my favorite piece ever, and I am stoked with a capital STOKE that I managed to unload it on somebody. (Comment on this)
Thursday, August 30th, 2007
3:11 pm	What a Long, Strange, Humiliating, Emotionally Draining Trip It's Been So, I just signed up for the second of the two classes I'm taking this semester, and it will be the last class I ever register for at UW-Milwaukee. This December, barring something nigh-on apocalyptic happening, I will be graduating from UW-Milwaukee with a degree in English Creative Writing, with honors in the major and possibly a minor in history. Against all expectations, not only will I be the first of my parents' children to graduate from college, I'll also being doing so with a GPA I would have thought totally impossible in high school. Of course, it occurs to me that this could all be John-brand melodrama and maudlin. Until I mentioned it to my mother, of course. John: Can you believe I'm actually graduating in December? Mom: We're very proud of you. John: I know, it's just that this seemed so far off when I got done at the University of Iowa. Never really thought I'd finish, you know? Mom: Oh, I know. I can scarcely believe it myself. John: Yeah, I... wait, whaddaya mean? Mom: It was touch and go there for a while. We figured you'd put college off indefinitely. John: Oh... I did not know that. But as long as we're all getting shit out in the open, I figured mom could stand some illusion-shattering herself. John: Well, it's not like I had an option besides college at that point, you know? Mom: Not true. You could've worked at Crenlo and done very well for yourself. John: Naw, there were no girls at Crenlo. Mom: What? John: Well, me and Maren had just split up, and I wasn't gonna find a rebound on the shop floor, was I? Mom: *Brief Pause*... oh. I briefly toyed with throwing in Oscar Wilde's famous quote about laying in the gutter and gazing at the stars, but the poor woman had been through enough. But, getting back to the point: I'm graduating. I know it's just my bachelor's degree, but it's been an emotionally-charged four years. I honestly don't even remember what I was like before I first went to college. I mean, obviously I was the same in all the most obvious respects (loud, a little goofy, prone to extremes of emotion). But the internal monologue was very different, and I don't really remember how I viewed myself before I put the bottle down, much less before I picked it up. Not a day goes by where I don't notice some odd little idiosyncracy of mine, and wonder where the hell I picked THAT irritating habit up. Generally, I assume it all happened in the murky days before I lived in Burge Hall. Of course, in the ugly days after I quit drinking, I would occasionally give in to the hateful idea - that, upon actually graduating, I would give off a resounding "fuck you" to all the people in Iowa City who came to see me as no more than a common drunk. But actually, now that I'm approaching the day of victory, I don't honestly remember the great majority of those people. I also used to think I'd snort and laugh at everybody who ever disliked my writing, but again, it just seems so petty and pointless in the light of day. In the end, there's really only one person who I maintain any kind of vindictive, vengeful hate for. Back in the eighth grade, I had this teacher named Miss Stapleton. Miss Stapleton thought I could be a wonderful writer someday, but in the meantime, I was a loser with a short attention span and a bad GPA. When I thought her assignments were boring and stupid, she took this as laziness. When I would occasionally decide to show her up and turn in something good, she would take this as a victory for her tyrannical teaching methods. And so on and so forth. She was the crappiest teacher I've ever had, treating me like some kind of leper just because I found her classroom activities (such as singing "We Are The Champions" by Queen for some reason) stupid and even counterproductive. So: Hey, bitch. Yeah, Stapleton, YOU. Y'all can suck it. (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Tuesday, August 21st, 2007
2:22 pm	Conversation With The Rev *Me and Bill are driving through downtown Milwaukee, as we often do.* Me: So... what's good with that Megan girl, anyway? Bill: Y'know, actually, Koren had a little chat with her on the DL, and... Me: Goddammit! Bill: What? Me: This is the lead up to something horrible. Bill: Why do you always assume that? Me: I don't - but you're a guy prone to hyperbole. If she was into it, you'd just bellow "she loves ya, man!" or some shit like that. Bill: Well, Koren talked to her. Passed her a note in study hall, if you will. Me: What did the note say? Bill: There was no note. It was a metaphorical note. Me: Bill, I swear to Christ... Bill: Alright, alright, I guess she thinks you're cool, and she's open to the idea. Me: Which idea? Bill: How many ya got? Me: Well, I've kinda discounted the whole night-of-wild-sex thing. Bill: Hey, man, maybe she's ready. Me: (shocked joy) Where'd you hear that?!? Bill: I didn't. I'm guessing. Me: I hate you, Bill. Bill: Everyone does. So I guess Megan "kinda likes me" - which is actually kinda lame. If you're doing your job right, the girl you're aiming for "definitely likes you a whole bunch." But that's me, and I'm a man prone to extremes. Frankly, I get excited about the idea of just taking her on a stupid, boring, awkward-ass, stereotypical dinner-date. As long as you don't call a girl your girlfriend, there's always still time to back out... (Don't start with me, girls. Women do this, too.) (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Saturday, May 26th, 2007
8:26 pm	Summer Time Well, the summer is upon us. And you know what that means - working constantly, and desperately trying to write a novel when I'm not dragging ass around the office or careening through Milwaukee with Big Bill. So. There's that. I'm kinda hoping to finally kick out this idea I've been toying with, the happy-go-lucky-gun-runners one I keep failing to write. I'm gonna start with a short story of around 5000 words, and then see if there's more to be had from it. I've busted my notebook out and done a few scenes sprinkled throughout the storyline, and some of those are really promising. So maybe I'll get something out of it. I've got some stuff in the pipe as well, just needing to be fine-tuned and sent out. "Truth in Advertising" is probably ready for submission to one of the more transgressive online mags, while "Zelda's Rubbers" is probably ready for one of the more respectable literary reviews. I've wanted to crack Absinthe Literary Review for ages, and maybe this is the one. There's also this wicked magazine called Apocalypse, a journal of end-of-the-world literature. I might end up abbreviating and tightening "Atrophy" and sending it out to them. I love the mag, and it'd be fun to see my name there. All in all, hoping to come out of this summer with at least two new publications. Wish me luck, and drop a line if you wanna edit at all. (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Wednesday, May 2nd, 2007
6:42 pm	Awesome! This is so fucking cool: http://www.space.com/scienceastronomy/070424_hab_exoplanet.html The planet is determined to be within the habitable zone around it's star, and would either be rocky or oceanic. Which means some of the basic shit necessary for life is there... which is awesome. Doesn't mean there IS life there, but at least we know we're not a complete cosmic fluke. (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Friday, April 27th, 2007
7:25 pm	Update Whoa, haven't written anything here lately. The skinny: - I got a tattoo. It nows says "I Will Not Serve" in Latin on my right shoulder blade. Metal? Yes. - I work at a gas station now. It's pretty cool seeing the supply side of the cigarette equation. It's also funny to find that nobody's more grabby about their products than lottery ticket buyers. - I'm being published in Furrow Magazine on May 3rd. And they want me to come to read my poems for the release party, which is moderately cool. - Jesus has still not returned. And now you know the REST of the story. (3 Comments |Comment on this)
Monday, March 12th, 2007
8:41 pm	Huh Today was a bad day. To start off, let us speak of Fight Club. I love the movie Fight Club. I also hate my Fantasy in Literature class. These two factors coalesced to make a delightful start to the day. Now, to be clear, the teacher is awesome in this class. Her name's Laurie, and I took her Adolescence in Literature class. That class proved awesome beyond words, Laurie put me in for a letter of commendation from the department, I got an A despite massive attendance problems, and it was all good. She's also damn cute, and would have to be married, O cruel fates. However, it must also be said that I've met her husband, who is writing his PhD thesis about masculinity in literature (citing such books as, you guessed it... Fight Club!), which makes him at least theoretically the coolest human being on Earth. But I'm digressing. Back on track. Laurie's class is "Fantasy in Literature." This would be awesome, except the class is full of hardcore Tolkien nerds who can't have a literary discussion beyond, "Dude, elves are awesome." Hence, this class sucks. Everyone is always going on and on about who would win, Voldemort or the Balrog, and there's no time left to discuss the Christian allegory of "The Chronicles of Narnia." Which sucks, because I can usually segue that slyly into a running debate on Christianty. So this was my one class today, and so I started the day with a hearty breakfast: frustration smothered in lamesauce. From there I headed to the coffeeshop. The coffeeshop is normally a place of joy and respite, but today I had an ill vibe. On ill-vibe days, it's like every little thing makes me nuts. I couldn't get comfy, the coffee made me too jittery, I smoked too many cigarettes, and people irritate me. By the time I left, I was sensing a full-on depression day coming on. Silently running through a list of bipolar symptoms in my head, I headed for the bus stop. Quietly, I rode the bus home. There, my landlord had good news: since she was having her car towed, she could ask the driver to jump the battery in my dead-ass car, which has been parked in front of my house for three days now. Unfortunately, the driver wanted 35 dollars. I paid him, and even more unfortunately, my battery wouldn't take the charge. Apparently, that's the original factory battery, and should've been replaced four years ago. Neat. This was the last straw, and I flipped out. This just plain sucks. I then opened the Visa bill, which only made me more angry. I completely flipped out for a while, and just walked around the neighborhood cursing a lot. It was at this time that a small black boy ran up to me on the sidewalk and screamed, "Go home, white boy!" I'm on a roll, y'know? And to top it off, my landlord met this crisis by giving me a book by Billy Graham, which promises to explain God's plan for me. Swell. Anyway, by this time it was time for work. Off I went on the bus to my job, which of course sucks. I was sitting in the call center when my cell rang; it was my mom, having an awful day herself. I stepped out immediately for a cigarette and listened to her for a moment. While outside, I saw Rishi, who walked up to me - with my mom on the phone - and said "Hit this." He held in his hand a Camel Filter. Rolling my eyes, I took a drag. That ain't tobacco, baby. Rishi had cleverly affixed a fake filter to his joint, which was full of stank-ass bud. So, long story... um... long, I'm baked. (2 Comments |Comment on this)
Friday, March 9th, 2007
12:43 pm	A Word About Nic-Fits The precise definition of "addictive" is kinda up in the air. However, in general, if there are noticeable and universal withdrawal symptoms, you can call a substance "addictive." Nicotine's withdrawal symptoms are significantly milder than those for, say, alcohol or opiates (both of which can theoretically kill the withdrawing addict), and are colloquially known as a "nic-fit." The damnedest thing about nic-fits is that I can't quite pin down their exact patterns. Nearest as I can figure, if I go more than an hour and a half without a cigarette, I get a nic-fit. This seems to be time-dependent, though. For example, when it's around bedtime, I don't really need a cigarette all that bad, probably because my system is saturated with nicotine at that point. Conversely, I need multiple cigarettes at regular intervals in the morning. This makes the early part of the day hard to negotiate, as the nic-fits come on hard when I'm doing a morning-to-early-afternoon work shift. So I'm sitting here at work a little while ago, and I need a smoke. I go ask Kate if that's cool, and she says yes. I proceed to roll myself a cigarette and head outside. One symptom of nicotine withdrawal is mildly quaking hands. Not major, definitely not as bad as having the delirium tremens (when I literally didn't go to class for a week, as my body would suddenly begin violently shaking at seemingly random intervals). But it can definitely give you... I dunno... butterfingers. This became evident when I stepped outside, and promptly dropped my cig in a puddle, thereby ruining it. I began cursing profusely. Luckily, another smoker was also having a nic-fit, and was pulling a cig out of his pack at that very moment. Seeing my predicament, he pulled one out for me... and promptly dropped it in the same puddle. "Fuck," we cried in unison. So he grabs another one out for me, and hands it to me. I instantly drop it in the exact same goddamn puddle. Three destroyed cigs later, I'm beginning to understand why cigarettes are, in fact, the dumbest addiction on the planet (besides heroin. I hate needles). (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Monday, March 5th, 2007
7:02 pm	New Fiction Anybody wanna read? It's the heartwarming tale of a boozehound and a leather-jacketed desperado, complete with excessive substance abuse, outright mendacity, donkey-punching, swordplay, and even some real-live bloodshed. If there's any interest, I'll post in a locked entry (because I still have vague hopes of publishing it somewhere, and I don't wanna void the rights). (Comment on this)
Friday, March 2nd, 2007
6:26 pm	Choke, kthnxbye So I'm sitting at work today, explaining to a buddy my recent attempts to sell my stereo on Craigslist. I've gotten one offer for it, but - Unasked by me, the "buyer" offered sixty bucks more than I was asking. - This "buyer" also lives in Georgia, which would of course raise the question of why she was browsing Milwaukee's Craigslist page. - She wants me to ship the stereo via her absurdly complicated system involving the postal service somehow. - She appears to only barely speak English, and - She wants to pay by money order, which CL advises are almost always fake. You just really shouldn't sell something on CL unless you can actually meet the person, as CL advises, and as everyone on CL is aware. Hence, it seems unlikely that somebody would honestly offer $200 bucks for my maybe-worth-$100 stereo under such conditions. So I'm thinking "scam." "Well, how do you know?" comes some umbrage-thick voice from across the office. It is, of course, Captain Douchetool, this being my pet name for some retard I work with. He's one of those people who combines the charming habits of constantly butting into the conversations of others, and also never, EVER conceding a point, no matter how ludicrously and obviously untenable said point is. "I suppose I don't know," I responded. "But Craigslist has notices up advising you not to take money orders from people you can't actually meet." "I doubt it," he says, with this fakely knowing look. Seriously, dude just called me a liar. What the fuck. So I actually bring up Craigslist on my computer, show dude the notice, remind him that roughly 90% of the internet is a confidence scam, etc. "Whatever," is his stunning rebuttal. People who know me may be familiar with my "WTF?" look, wherein I throw up my hands and look wildly around me, as if I'm missing something and trying to find it. Picture that, but angrier. So I shoot back: "Dude, what the hell would you know?" "It's a money order. It's as good as cash. You have nothing to worry about." I continue my why-am-I-trapped-in-such-a-stupid-reality routine, and attempt to explain to Captain Douchetool that a forged money order would only become apparent weeks later. Having gotten and spent the cash by the time this was discovered, I would then be on the hook for two hundred dollars, and facing possible criminal charges. This simply does not get through to Captain Douchetool, who simply rolls his eyes at me. "Seriously, what don't you understand here?" I demand. "CL posts this notice for a reason. They probably know better than me, right?" "Oh, I'm SURE they do," he snarks. At which point my thought process is, in total, "I will destroy you, you vile son of a bitch." For those of you not aware, the proper response to that sort of tone of voice is to 1) Stand up. 2) Pick up your office chair in both hands. 3) Walk calmly across the room. 4) Slam the chair down on the offending douchetool's neck, thus snapping his spine and removing the looming threat of his hellish, accursed genes poisoning our common genetic heritage. But no. I'm at work. So I just flipped him off, and refused to address him as anything other than "Mary Mary Quite Contrary" for the rest of the shift. This made him literally red with rage, which I found humorous to no end. Some people just shouldn't be. (Comment on this)
Tuesday, February 27th, 2007
4:05 pm	The Word-Playa's Ball So I'm getting done in workshop today, and I'm feeling good. It's been a solid session. I've accomplished The Zen of The Writer's Workshop, i.e. explaining to dude how his story sucks and how he should maybe roll with the day job, but without causing a petulant outburst. As per standard procedure, me and my comrades - Steve, Cat, and The Reverend Bill - meet out in front of Curtin Hall for cigarettes and whimsy. All goes well. Fortuitously, Bill mentions that he got divorced last night, and in an extremely comical way - his wife just showed up at his favorite coffee shop and slapped the papers down on the table, flexed, and bellowed "You got SERVED!" More fortuitously, Bill actually thinks this is the funniest thing in the world. And perhaps most fortuitously of all, Cat switches from knowing chuckles to girlish giggles pretty much the moment he mentions he's officially single. Cat's a cool chick, and if anyone deserves some cute, witty writer chick, it's The Reverend Bill. So, Cat bails for a class. Bill mentions that he's gonna run down to the Gasthaus (the bar in the basement of the student union). Steve mentions that he could go for a scotch, and it comes to my attention they serve cheap coffee. And we were all off like a gin-soaked prom dress. We get there and sit down at the bar. I order coffee, Bill goes with a Blue Moon, and Steve calls for a triple-scotch rocks. And as Steve's about to take a sip, he furtively hands Bill a bag of psilocybin mushrooms under the bar, looks at me, and says - apropos of nothing - "I always wear a suit and tie when I do heroin." This set the tone for the remainder of the afternoon. Four hours later, I've taken in more delicious human wierdness than my brain can fully process. Seriously, I'm gonna have to just chill and watch MTV for a few days before my head will be in full working condition again. It needs a rest. Party with writers, gang. They got stories. (Comment on this)
Sunday, February 25th, 2007
12:45 pm	Freelancer: The Cheapening So a while back, my buddy Mark told me about this website called "Associated Content." It's like the Associated Press' younger, more immature brother. Basically, they pay small sums of money for virtually anything, as long as it's competently written enough that it could serve as content on a website somewhere. They also pay for college papers, which is what I originally came aboard for - at a guaranteed four bucks for every quality paper over 400 words, I've got about fifty bucks just kinda laying around in the My Documents folder. So I sold them about thirty bucks worth of papers (some would be better described as essays). Then I figured I'd try a couple original articles, because they were offering a ten dollar minimum for "how-to" articles last week. So I banged out one article on writing better college papers (they obviously think I'm doing something right) and one about selling your creative writing. If they buy both of those, I'll have made in one week roughly a quarter of what I'd made previously with all my writing combined since I was sixteen. It's also actually a ton of fun writing articles - it's all fact-based, so you don't have to keep anything straight. It's practically a vacation from creative writing, and it keeps my brain limber. If anybody out there like to write, about virtually anything, I strongly suggest you check out Associated Content. You can make some extra cash, and more importantly, it'll eventually get you some published clips to flash around. Between AC and that poetry publication this May, my portfolio is looking pretty solid. Also, check out my "content producer" page: http://www.associatedcontent.com/user/52664/john_newman.html If you end up signing up, let me know. I'll get you some page views, which helps you get paid more. Current Mood: cold Current Music: Neato 80's Stuff Prescott is Playing (Comment on this)
Sunday, February 18th, 2007
9:32 pm	Wierd Okay. Hypothetical question time. Let's suppose you were sitting at work, minding your own business and reading Wikipedia. Then your cell phone rings, and an extremely angry black man begins yelling, demanding to know where his money is. This angry black man claims you owe him $25, which seems like a pretty stupid sum to get all rowdy about. So you desperately try to get a handle on what the fuck's going on, but dude isn't having it, and continues to demand your money while never saying why you owe him said money. He eventually hangs up, upon deciding that, for convenience's sake, he will simply meet you at your home and beat you within an inch of your life. Let us further suppose that the warmer weather tempted you into wearing your black suede coat today. And let us further suppose that, in your rush to get out of the house in the morning, you forgot to move your pepper spray and knife to the other coat. Oops. So... how would you handle that? Current Music: Angry Black Men (3 Comments |Comment on this)