Ahhh...
After two days of sleep deprived needling with the moxa queen, and one full day of typing feverishly away at my business plan, I am ready for a siesta. I had clinic at the integrative health center all week, and we treated a herpes zoster patient, a new patient with bell's palsy, a pregnant woman, and a nun, on top of all our regular return clients, all in one day. I'm in a bathrobe, and the only thing that will get me out of said bathrobe would be a trip to the diner in Ovid.
Some good bits of media that I've sucked on in the last couple of days:
"Clerks II." Watch it. Just...watch it. I laughed so hard that I farted a really wet one out, like maybe it was a SHART, and the somewhat sorry presentation of it all killed my chances of getting laid that evening, but it was worth it.
Last night, we watched "Art School Confidential," an indie flick about a visual arts student named Jerome who tries his best to woo the art world and the girl of his dreams. Kinda boring, kinda lame, but I enjoyed it because it reminded me of what it was like to be at North Carolina School of the Arts. I remember the subtle too cool for school-ness that pervaded the atmosphere there, and sometimes I even look back on it fondly.
After watching the artsy kids do their thing, I finished the book "Misery" by Stephen King. I think I read this for the first time when I was ten. My dad bought it for me, happy I was reading something. I remember that we were driving to Maine, and I had just gotten to the part where Nurse Annie chops the poor writer's foot off, and I couldn't stop reading until the end of the book. Well, the same thing happened again last night; I blazed through 150 pages without so much as a bathroom break. I looked up, shuddering, and it was 1:30 AM. Oops.
I am also reading "Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrel" by Elizabeth someone or another. It is a much MUCH slower read, but completely engrossing, in its stuffy, British way. Imagine Emily Bronte writing about magicians in an imaginary 19th century London where they hold a kind of academic/theoretical scientist sort of position in the world. More interesting than it sounds.
I just finished "Watchmen," the seminal graphic novel by Allen Moore. It was badass. Just buy the fucking thing and read it.
In my own little story, poor Jack just watched his Grandmother accidently incinerate herself in her hospital room. Now, at 118 pages, the story is moving into its second act. Writing fiction has a sort of narcotic bliss to it, where you get a little lost. This is both more fun and less fun than writing screenplays, which at around 14000 heavily formated words flies right by, but isn't as easy to lose yourself in. It is infinitely more fun than poetry, which always makes me feel like a pansy, and short stories, which require a command of story that I don't have yet.
Writing in this thing is pretty interesting, even though the only person who reads it is Mike White (hey, champ).
Some good bits of media that I've sucked on in the last couple of days:
"Clerks II." Watch it. Just...watch it. I laughed so hard that I farted a really wet one out, like maybe it was a SHART, and the somewhat sorry presentation of it all killed my chances of getting laid that evening, but it was worth it.
Last night, we watched "Art School Confidential," an indie flick about a visual arts student named Jerome who tries his best to woo the art world and the girl of his dreams. Kinda boring, kinda lame, but I enjoyed it because it reminded me of what it was like to be at North Carolina School of the Arts. I remember the subtle too cool for school-ness that pervaded the atmosphere there, and sometimes I even look back on it fondly.
After watching the artsy kids do their thing, I finished the book "Misery" by Stephen King. I think I read this for the first time when I was ten. My dad bought it for me, happy I was reading something. I remember that we were driving to Maine, and I had just gotten to the part where Nurse Annie chops the poor writer's foot off, and I couldn't stop reading until the end of the book. Well, the same thing happened again last night; I blazed through 150 pages without so much as a bathroom break. I looked up, shuddering, and it was 1:30 AM. Oops.
I am also reading "Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrel" by Elizabeth someone or another. It is a much MUCH slower read, but completely engrossing, in its stuffy, British way. Imagine Emily Bronte writing about magicians in an imaginary 19th century London where they hold a kind of academic/theoretical scientist sort of position in the world. More interesting than it sounds.
I just finished "Watchmen," the seminal graphic novel by Allen Moore. It was badass. Just buy the fucking thing and read it.
In my own little story, poor Jack just watched his Grandmother accidently incinerate herself in her hospital room. Now, at 118 pages, the story is moving into its second act. Writing fiction has a sort of narcotic bliss to it, where you get a little lost. This is both more fun and less fun than writing screenplays, which at around 14000 heavily formated words flies right by, but isn't as easy to lose yourself in. It is infinitely more fun than poetry, which always makes me feel like a pansy, and short stories, which require a command of story that I don't have yet.
Writing in this thing is pretty interesting, even though the only person who reads it is Mike White (hey, champ).
posted by Dr. Sun Si Miao at 7:37 AM
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