JIll Soloway, Saloway, Solaway etc

Jill Soloways says she checks even mispelled incarnations of her own name in google. So I hope she finds this. If she does, well, she will know someone who just happens to be spontaneously decomposing over glycolysis and got a C on his wonderful article about protein targeting and the calnexincycle mentioned her just off-beat. She has started blogging again, so everyone rejoice.
(Not that anyone reads this. But in my own head I'm like super popular and people love me)

Of course, this post isn't really about Jill Sallowai. Even though she is fabelous and wonderful, like so many others. This post is really about me never being able to let go when I get a shitty grade. Why do I constantly vy for acknowledgment from a completely unpersonal form of authoral figure?

Why can't I just like what I do, and not think of the fact that I have to know certain things to painstalking detail, have to memorize all the fucking enzymes that catalyze the fucking glycolysis and the fucking gluconeolysis and the fucking metabolic fucking pathway?

Probably because my way of diversing myself from the other fucking entities of normality has been by being smart, being creative, being a talker, being a homosexual, being intersting. So if I am not smart, that means I am one less defining characteristic away from being really interesting, and one closer to being just a part of uniformality.
And in a way, my yearning to be special sort of makes me just as dull as everyone else.

It's a lose lose situation.

In other news: Done Neil Gaiman's Sandman, love it, still stuck on chapter 3, but not because I am really stuck, but because I haven't had time or energy. Done Choke, the Paulhaniuk book, done Burgess, done Sigur Ros.

Think you can die from being oversexed?

PS: Took the picture a cold Monday morning, waiting for the bus. The letters spoke to me.

Fuck

Okay, so what is there to say? Kind of a lot, as it always is. But I'm not going to say all of it. First of all, artist-wise, the three chapters I was so proud of were lost in the horrible computer-virus oblivion where the laptop just collapsed under the weight of so much porn. I have been lucky for so long, being able to download like, a gazzilion tons of virtual stimuli, and hence everything had to go straight to hell sooner or later.

So that's that.

I had a really interesting experience with puke and vodka last weekend. Without question this is going into the book in some incarnation, and someone made a film out of my touch-a-lesbian-in-a-really-gay-way-dance and posted it on youtube. Maybe I will use this as well. I have not seen this film, and I never, ever, ever will. I'll probably decompose.

Other things that are on my mind:
-exams getting closer and closer, in fact, so close breathing is getting harder. All my classes this semester are of course ridiculously hard. So fuck me, I guess.
-Reading more than usual these days. Chuch Palahniuk, Murakami. And Burgess. Liked Clocwork Orange. Need to see the film.
-Feeling guilty about not writing enough. Have to go down and do it afterwards. Finish the next part of chapter 2.
-Someone with a hidden number has been calling me a lot and I thought it was a sadist or something. Turns out it is a Freundin in Brazil.
-Lot of good music. Love Sleater-Kinney. Love Thomas Dybdahl.

It's easy like one two three

When I get my pay from where I work I'm gonna buy a camera. And I'll post pictures. There are all sorts of funny little ugly things I could write, but I'll just take a long crap in stead.

Maybe she's just pieces of my you've never seen.

Lost highway

I always feel so guilty about this blog. It's a strange thing. I like to write, in fact, it is a very important part of me. And I really like this blog, because it allows me just to open everything up. Not that I don't do that, like all the time, but you know...

Downstaris Lost Highway is on pause. I don't know why, but I pause it all the time because I want to draw. I don't know if I like, hate, despise or love David Lynch. Part of him is a big, fat phoney I think. But what the hell do I know. Have I written a ton of movies? Let me check my CV. No, I haven't.

The writing of my third novel is going great, I think. And my mother is watching some strange drama on the reich channel on the television. Wierd. And now she switched to a woman showering, and she didn't want to watch that. And now she is watching that crocodile frek who died. For some reason that was fun, so she stopped changing channels.

Are we related?

One of the characters in my book is a sworn Placebo fan.