2002-12-07 - 11:16 p.m.
I guess I write here because I realized that only one in a million make it in the real world. It's like being an actor, but worse. So while I dream up delicate metaphors like, "His tight beige vinyl pants molded to his firm legs like wet noodles", I am realistic enough to recognize how I could never write for the world.
So, at work, as I run my hands over the piles of contemporary fiction novels, the brightly abstract covers or the somber artistic ones, the raised font of the title and the author, I am jealous and not.
They are living their dream but more than half will disappear without a trace, drowning in a sea of words that not enough people swim in.
Nobody fucking reads anymore.
Thrift storing it tomorrow, then Adaptation and sushi. Fulfilling day with people and stuff.
~j
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