What It Takes.

Another thing about writing: like many people who self-publish, I do it compulsively. That doesn't mean I always do it well. I keep myself in check by watching other writers who are clocking in their hours and learning to be disciplined. They're like sword-makers, thrusting their steel into the fire of their minds, folding it and beating it over and over again until their product is hard and perfect. I don't want to look like a grubby five-year old putting crayon scribbles on the fridge ("I HAS A STORY!", with a backwards "R"), so I hesitate a lot before posting. Thank God. I used to be really trigger-happy. A lot of my shitty prose is taking up space somewhere (cough cough, my Livejournal).

Speaking of time, I've been restraining my wanderlust, and have actually been getting the necessary stuff done, e.g. filling out loan applications, scholarship applications and coughing up two months of rent for my new apartment. It's been a really expensive year. For some reason, the fact that I've got a desk job tends to massively inflate my net worth in other people's eyes. All those pay stubs went to application fees, transcript fees, and travel expenses for campus visits and house-hunting, not re-creating James Bond cocktails , buying a Bardot tribute hoody or decorating with world artisan ceramics (because I'm trying to be conscientious now).

While I tick things off on my to-do list, you guys can stare at pictures of Daniel Edward's "Paris Hilton Autopsy". Imagine what it takes to inspire someone to make you the shining example of drunk driving by creating a sculpture that allows people to fondle your innards (tiara, cellphone, and chihuahua included).




More candy? Here's a piece depicting the birth of Britney's first child. Also, Banksy punks Paris on YouTube.