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NATURALLY DEPRAVED side affects may include emotional infancy, caffiene highs, mental inertia, physical dependence, and leperosy

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STAY BACK! i'm YOUNG, STUPID, AND i've GOT A PEN!

Her Divided Mind

what? just who the hell am i, you ask. i am the artist, the writer,... the ecentric?

Someone once asked me "Who are you?" Confused I gave him my name, but he simply shook his head and said, "No there's more to who you are then a mere name. Who are you?" I sighed and thought about it. "Well," I replied "I'm a student, an art student to be precise, and one of these days I'm going to be an author, but I don't really know what I want to do for a living." A little mullified, he said, "That's a start, but it still doesn't tell me who you truly are." I shrugged, "Technically I'm insignificant, but my pride will never acknowledge that.... I'm a bitch too, moody and rather unpleasant, callous and selfish to most people." I looked up at him to see if that was satisfactory enough, but he glared at me, "That's not the real you at all and we both know it!" My patience wearing thin, I choked down the scathing retort on the tip of my tongue, and took a deep breath. "I'm different, not like everyone else, because i don't care what they think.... because I'm witty and intelligent.... because I'm introverted and I can't stand constant contact with other people." I stopped when I saw him shaking his head again and opening his mouth to say something. Temper flaring, I snapped, "I'm God, damnit!" and walked away with a grin, thinking to myself that that had been a very bizarre conversation to have with a stranger.

a list of favorites


1. color- green
2. animal- wolf
3. poet- e.e. cummings
4. condament- salt
5. element- fire
6. artist- Vangogh/Dali
7. author- Harlan Ellison
8. pet- cat/ferret
9. book- Diplomacy Of Wolves
10. t.v. show- My Little Ponies
11. movie- Blade Runner
12. religion- celticism
13. director- Ridly Scott/Tim Burton
14. movie composer- Danny Elfman


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IF ONLY I WERE “THEY”

They all said it- the big, impressive, omnipotent “they”- all the greats (Dickens, Bradbury, Ellison, Twain). And if they didn’t say it, they knew it. The first rule of learning how to become a writer is to, “write what you know.” And that, my friend, is where my blossoming career as a talented young writer begins and ends. I never write what I know. Now as much as I’d like to think this stubbornly ignorant habit of mine has formed as a testament to my remarkable skill, it’s just not so. I’m not sure why I insist on writing pitiful fiction instead of just bad, sentimental memoirs. I’m not sure why’ve I’ve tip–toed around every substantial thing I have ever had to say and packed my stories with empty adjectives and ridiculous plot instead. Perhaps I’m intimidated. Then of course I ask myself- of whom? Surely I, as brilliant and magnificent as I am, don’t care what others think of me? But then why am I here writing this?

There is so much beauty in a story, so much potential to find yourself in a word. I want that! I want to feel that zest for the written word that burns in Harlan Ellison’s scathingly clever essays and all throughout e.e. cummings’s stunning poetry. I want to know what it’s like to have something be so much a part of me that it makes me sit up and notice I’m alive, that there is so much more beyond me. To be able to put words to what I think, to be able to express every complex and erratic emotion- that is what I desire. So what’s the problem, you ask? I don’t know. Honestly, I don’t. However, I do know that the only way for me to figure myself out- is to write. Which is convenient since I seem to be unable to rid myself of the writer in me. It’s unavoidable I suppose. Whatever my future holds, writing will be a part of it. I figure I might as well make the best of it and cultivate this passion of mine into something productive. In order to do that, I need to be guided, but also encouraged to explore and find my own self-expression. I crave an atmosphere that encourages me to scream, cry, and whisper in a voice distinctively mine. I need to find my muse so that I can experience life, write about it, and hopefully, not bludgeon her to death in the process. The truth? I don’t know. I don’t know if, ten years from now, I will find myself a professional writer or some secretly passionate scribbler. But I am certain that the only way to find out is to plunge into life, pen in hand, and take things as they come. Was it not Franz Kafka who believed there was a grave danger in living an unexamined life- not living it at all? I won’t ever let that happen, not to me. There is just too much I want out of this world and it all starts with something so delightfully simple: Write what you know.




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