If you've received any emails from me today, you might have sensed that I'm not in the greatest of moods. The other thing you probably noticed is that I'm writing a bit more, how shall we say, angstfully. To spare everyone from my overwrought prose, I'm going to retreat to the safety of my newly purchased light reading(wild guesses? I think you know...) and the bottle of wine I bought at Warehouse Wine and Spirits. I did have a lovely, but depressing, conversation with a woman on the subway about how much we hate Bush, Blair, Cheney, Halliburton, and the rest of the evil alphabet. It's nice to find a comrade in arms, especially on the subway when it's this hot. Maybe this isn't a heatwave after all-maybe we've already died in a Bush sanctioned nuclear holocause and are now languishing in some sort of collective Hell, a la Jacob's Ladder, or Soul Survivors. Wait, that's the sort of typing that's been getting me into trouble. No more!
Incidentally, Lewis Black has a small role in Jacob's Ladder. The kindly doctor? That's him. He's the nicest, sanest character in the movie...
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2 comments:
Despair not, fair Meredith! The Times has found the root of your angst! It's...the weather.
"Call it the Grumpy Factor, a phenomenon tied to humidity. In a nursery-rhyme-science sort of a way, the Grumpy Factor explains how unpleasantness can shuffle across the city, lighting tempers and darkening moods."
http://www.nytimes.com/2005/07/19/nyregion/19hot.html
"In a nursery-rhyme-science sort of way"?
Once again, a paragon of hard-hitting, investigative reporting.
Babe.
Didn't we already discuss how fab your prose is when you get all angsty. I can't get enough.
Stay angst-ridden.
It's good for the tortured writer soul.
Let's pretend we're Raskalnokov (sp?) and go drink whiskey somewhere dark and dank.
Then write America's next great novel.
I write plucky heroine parts, like you said, and you do tortured penis.
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