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The nice fellow was home again today waiting for his root canal (he's there now), and I didn't even try to write much. Bingo today too. And FAFSA stuff. I have to go to the credit union and find out some financial stuff before I can mail it. But it turns out there's no deadline. I thought it was today. I'll still mail it today, though.
He insisted on driving himself. I think I ought to stay around and wait for a bit to make sure he can drive himself home.
I don't know where he's getting it done!
I spent too much time today reading the Secret Diaries and the Slush God and I suppose it's just more evidence of my lack of fitness in this world that both of these depressed and frightened me and I think I better not anymore. I resemble too many of those remarks, I think. And I got my first rejection of the year, but I should not be surprised, I've tried to sell that story before, and I don't understand why everybody doesn't like it like I do. The nice fellow doesn't, but honestly, he often doesn't like what I write. Like Carter Wilson says, it's "not the price of admission."
Not my best day, is it?
Those 600 words were hard, but I didn't really work as hard as I ought to. Tomorrow I am going to help my friend Elizabeth set up her computer, then I will write more.
Nice fellow just came home, bearing vicodin, slurred voice, but seemingly fine. Emma's exhausted from unrelenting pain. Who am I to complain? My own troubles are of my own making.
He insisted on driving himself. I think I ought to stay around and wait for a bit to make sure he can drive himself home.
I don't know where he's getting it done!
I spent too much time today reading the Secret Diaries and the Slush God and I suppose it's just more evidence of my lack of fitness in this world that both of these depressed and frightened me and I think I better not anymore. I resemble too many of those remarks, I think. And I got my first rejection of the year, but I should not be surprised, I've tried to sell that story before, and I don't understand why everybody doesn't like it like I do. The nice fellow doesn't, but honestly, he often doesn't like what I write. Like Carter Wilson says, it's "not the price of admission."
Not my best day, is it?
Those 600 words were hard, but I didn't really work as hard as I ought to. Tomorrow I am going to help my friend Elizabeth set up her computer, then I will write more.
Nice fellow just came home, bearing vicodin, slurred voice, but seemingly fine. Emma's exhausted from unrelenting pain. Who am I to complain? My own troubles are of my own making.