Today is wow out. Sixty-four degrees, and everyone's out playing frisbee or reading on the grass, and I really can't imagine working at all. But nevertheless, here I am studiously avoiding those 15 pages. Incidentally, if anyone has any help they can chuck at me on focusing Chick-studies, I'd be much obliged.

There's something so elementally pleasing in blaring Lou Reed. I'm (rather shockingly) not a real 'crank-it-up' person, but I quite wanted my window open and couldn't take the rap any more--though it's alright in small doses, it'd been about two hours of it--so I had to turn up Lou loud enough to block. Which means this is as loud as me radio has ever been, and those outside best be appreciating the King of New York. Or, you know, move closer to the window with the rap...

I've started writing fiction (read: porn) again, as VK knows. It feels good to do so--I've realized lately that, shameful and silly as it is, I was really quite happy being this erotica-producer for internet subcultures. It was good to write, and good to make people happy, I guess. I was never really any good at it, but nevertheless I got a number of emails from utter strangers who'd go on about how lovely it was to have some porn in the morn, so to speak. And no one can be immune to such flattery, heh. I think it's about time I left here, if for nothing else than to write more porn--yea, it won't make a living, but it's a lot more satisfying than essays. Perhaps it's a bit preemptive to be quitting a day job I don't yet have, but I knew coming in I wasn't going to grad school. Perhaps I'm built for odd part-time jobs to supplement a mangy income from books and short stories. And perhaps it's time I invested in a proper pen name--while I've written stuff that's got me money before under my real name, I think I'd be a bit skittish to go about publishing the porn under my given name.

It's liberating to go, "Yes, okay, writing. It won't make me money, but it's what I want to do." I still don't see anything great in my work, no. But I've seen a lot worse than me, and I've missed measuring my life between stories, rather than this half-life of essays I never remember writing.

Yea. So. Time to be a big girl, self, and put down the wussy hiding-from-life-and-self.

But first, we've still got 3 weeks here. And we've got to muck through those before we have a life of porn, washing dishes, and watching the Superfriends with a cold beer.