the world does not revolve around french fries
i have weeded out my friends carefully. a chore. laborious task of dissecting each friend to find out his faults. then tossing the bad ones over my shoulder.
which leaves me with nothing but writers. ambitious writing friends. friends that know fine literature. friends that keep tossing me, "the next big thing." friends that are constantly working and working on getting published.
then there's little old me. me! the person that should be paying all this attention to my older, wiser "friends." i am supposed to be digesting all this scholarly advice. i am using this to help me become an adult. an adult who wants to be a writer. i mean, here i am stuck in college writing. you see, i'm a writing major. a writing, literature and publishing major. it's fancy. i get more credit for fancy.
but still i sit in front of blank, flashing screens writing in livejournals and blogs and contests are empty. devoid of the wit that is miss diana.
there is no diana to be found elsewhere but on this electronic plane. oh, sure there was high school contests and literary journals, but those don't count.
nothing counts.
except for this game of collecting writers. someone i can use to help further my career, perhaps they are thinking the same thing. "oh yeah, this diana chick can help me satisfy my cravings for brilliant prose and poetry. here in this girl is the answer. the answer of what i am not sure, but somewhere between those thighs or hidden deep in her belly is the writing. she will write something great one day. i can feel the heat even as i think of her."
perhaps no one thinks that. perhaps that's me rubbing off on them. i think i am much more devious than i seem. i want to soak up all their ideas till they are mine. i want to live through them. while i, failed writer, work at half-price books reading and reading, never stopping looking for inspiration while each of my friends one by one become famous.
and here i sit. blogging. web-logging. hoping for instant gratification.
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