She is close

Winter has officially begun. I’m glad that I’ve managed to spend a few wonderful autumn days in the parks – lonely but refreshing.

Soul and heart are back from the laundry. I guess I’m ready, but I doubt I’ll have fun waiting. I went to see the fireworks with my flatmates last night. Who the hell came up with the idea of fireworks with 3D effects? It was terrifying, but that’s because I’ve never watched a movie in 3D. I wouldn’t watch a 3D movie on a date because I’m almost certain that I will puke on their lap. Overall I have no idea what the purpose of 3D is; they are just as bad as nightmares – I already have enough of those.

Reading the rat’s horoscope is gradually beginning to infuriate me. A few days ago, there were allergy warnings. I thought it was ridiculous for this time of the year, but I had rashes and welts. Today’s horoscope primarily focuses on the positive aspects of my love life. Excuse me, what love life? Crushing with no goal in sight.

Why do I hate small talk with people? When I tell them some good news, I see fake smiles indicating, “Nice but whatever!” When I tell them something terrible has occurred (here comes the worst), they would say, “Ah, I’m so sorry to hear that.” Shit, you are. And people wonder why I’m quiet. I’d rather be laughed at.

There’s at least something more sincere in mischievousness than people using the word SORRY. Dammit, why do I react to things that annoy me? It can’t be that difficult to accept little things the way they are and get over them. But haven’t I been doing this all my life?

With my lack of social skills, I can’t genuinely laugh with everyone about the same thing.

I still find laughter and conversations in crowds dreadful. It always feels like those voices (especially the high pitched laughter) are splitting your brains in two. The smell of alcohol and cigarettes on your clothes isn’t the worst about socializing in the pub. It’s the disorientation. That’s what I get for not drinking. I wish I loved the taste of alcohol, and I wish alcohol wouldn’t be that bad for my body. Unfortunately, it’s not easy to get hold of drugs because I wouldn’t mind drugs.

God, I sound like Bill Hicks.

I’m almost through with “Master and Margarita.” It is funny, no doubt, but that book changed my mind about using Satan’s appearance in my latest short story. If I have to elaborate, then I’d rather eradicate Satan completely. The last thing I want is to give people the impression that I am into fantasy and horror writing, which I’m not. Nonetheless, I like version one of my story better without the answers. Now that I’ve mentioned Graham’s weak points, he has entirely lost the evil part. But that’s what the readers want, apparently. For some reason, it feels like a creative writer is not supposed to write like Pynchon or Kafka. We learn nothing about Tristero, and we learn nothing about what crime K. has committed.

Something cold inside my body always expands whenever I write. It’s a sense of detachment that I’m familiar with–something from my childhood. When I was young, I always felt like I had a lot of love to give. I expressed all my love in handwritten novels.

Love, love, love.

To this day, no one had ever really sincerely accepted it or respected it, so it doesn’t feel that special anymore.

Love, love, love.

Good people have asked for it–good people who surely deserved it too, but I don’t know how to deal with people with that sincerity. There’s something so virginal about natural sincerity that makes me not want to taint it. Overall, I’m very much in need of someone to carefully watch over me so I won’t lose my mind, but I also want to watch over him and witness how he deals with conflicts.
But that’s too much to ask.

Why wouldn’t I want to write 30 novels a year like Philip? I was too shy to mention it last week. What is left for someone who lacks social skills? It takes about two years to get to know me; I don’t know if anyone’s interested or has the patience.

I can’t keep up with time nowadays. Five weeks have passed, and I still haven’t taken the chance to talk properly to them.

Where is your charisma? Damn! Attract me! Attract me! Shit. Fuck my brains. Yell at me! Yell at me for patronizing you. I think you have no idea what boredom really is. Why would I talk to a robin? Why would I pretend that Thoreau was a secret rebel? Just why…

Lately, I have noticed that I tend to write stories in the third person. I’m sick of all the “I” in my blog posts. I guess that’s self-explanatory. But even in the third person, I seem to be on an ego trip, sharing parts and bits, especially my interest in unusual, secretive blokes. I attempt to penetrate their heads to find out what they want or what bothers them.

I’m not sure how well I did with my beautiful protagonist Graham. I mean, how many men would trust a girl right after their first conversation? After all, Graham is desperate. The good thing is my mind is as dirty as a man’s.

I’m surprised my guest tutor, Nikita Lalwani, likes the opening of my novel. Ironically she likes my style the best, even though I suck at style. Maybe it’s a good thing that she is a woman because I’m writing about a woman. Another thing that surprised me was that she didn’t pick up on some misogynistic elements. Well, probably because Ellen, my protagonist, is a woman herself, and I’m a woman author.

Many contradictions are going on. Nikita says I need to highlight Ellen’s desires and goals and focus on them. I need to become Ellen.

Wait for a second; I’m not a schizotypal surgeon who takes peopl’s blood samples before sleeping with them! Oh God, it’s all too heavy.

How will I get this all done in a year? Someone hold me tonight and say no word, just keep my back warm.

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