Since no discernable progress has been made on the aforementioned list, I'll content myself to continue rambling about increasingly unimportant things.
I wrote a certain type of letter (my first, in fact) a month or so ago. It was nice and flowery and well metered with many a literary technique applied to it. I even took the time to revise it. Of course, I have no intention of ever showing this bit of writing to anyone, ever, save maybe a 26-year-old, heartbroken, angry-at-the-world version of myself. Yesterday, however, I discovered a set of papers that had been with my letter in a pile of my mom's stuff. The pages of the letter itself have yet to reveal themselves. I'm trying really hard not to make the connection.
Summer reading list (completed):
A Storm of Swords - George R. R. Martin
Tao Te Ching - Lao Tzu
Life of Pi - Yann Martel
Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince - J. K. Rowling
Love in the Time of Cholera - Gabriel Garcia Marquez
High Fidelity - Nick Hornby
Eragon - Christopher Paolini
Eldest - Christopher Paolini
Currently reading:
Franny and Zooey - J.D. Salinger
The Brothers Karamazov - Fyodor Dostoevsky
Future reading:
The Brothers K - David James Duncan
One Hundred Years of Solitude - Gabriel Garcia Marquez
For Whom the Bell Tolls - Ernest Hemingway
Things Fall Apart - Chinua Achebe
In the Beginning - Chaim Potok
Ambitious, I know, but I've always been better at reading than doing things that actually should be done.
I strained my back the other day, so I put ice on it. I even slept that way. Now my bed smells like peas. Like the kind from the pod that you freeze.
balls, i almost am that 26-year-old
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