Ferocity Mill

Is it just me, or is the Internet getting more complicated and distracting these days? I swear, I sit down to write something brilliant and every time I get sucked into facesmack or awkwardfamilyphotos.com or whatever have you, and before I know it, I’ve been reduced to a glossy-eyed couch puddle. I tried to combat Web-related lethargy by taking a creative writing class this semester in addition to my required classes, and the effect reminded me of a so-called witticism that was a favorite at my Twelve-Step-based boarding school: “Don’t pray for humility; all you’ll get is trouble.”

I asked for inspiration, and hoo boy, did I get it. I got inspired to write journal entries about my creative writing professor – specifically, about his almost comical lack of competence and professionalism. If I had to guess, I’d say he blew the school board to get his job, because any instructor who claims that “we don’t have time to read the classics” and then proceeds to assign his own embarrassingly unpolished play as required weekend reading is clearly pulling some favors. The class is at 9 a.m., and when it first began, I would make sure to get coffee before class in an attempt to be pumped for some writing, man! Now I smoke a bowl before class, because otherwise the fact that we do absolutely no creative writing during class would irritate me to the point where I might say something rude. I also wear earplugs, so that I’m not distracted by my professor’s self-important blathering while I’m journaling about his joke of a class. I mean, seriously, guy – if you want to go on and on and on about things that aren’t particularly relevant or interesting, don’t teach a class. Be like the rest of us and get a blog. Christ.

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Let’s see, what else has been WEDDING PLANNING going on … I suppose I’ve been doing some WEDDING PLANNING traveling, planting some flowers in the WEDDING PLANNING garden … oh, and have I mentioned that we’ve set a date? I swear I won’t bore you with the details, unless you ask. Or mention it. Or talk about someone else’s wedding within earshot. Or mention the date (September 25th).

Okay, I’m sorry. I’ll keep it to a dull, tulle-enfolded roar. Just as soon as I share with you  my frustration with (and also total dependency on) this nifty little site called TheKnot.com. A friend of mine referred me to it, and while I have to admit it’s easily the most useful wedding-planning tool since the shotgun, it’s also quickly becoming the bane of my existence. For instance, did you know that there are approximately eleventy trillion ways to do your hair for your wedding, and if you don’t pick the perfect, yes PERFECT one, you will be miserable and kittens will cry at the mere sight of your wedding album? Well, if you didn’t, The Knot will be pleased to imply it for you at least once per day. In case you don’t get the message right away, it will add that you CAN get a dress for under $3,000! But only if you are a BAD BRIDE, one who doesn’t understand the significance of this, the most special day of your life and that is to include the day of your BIRTH, goddammit. It will give out your address to local vendors, who will send you glossy postcards with pictures of seven-foot-tall supermodel brides wearing tiny shoes that cost more than the Lasik surgery you’ve been saving up for. Of course, it will also help you budget, make to-do checklists, and arrange your guest list in a pleasingly alphabetical way – which is why I haven’t slammed my laptop shut and run, screaming and flailing, for the hills.

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My dog has some pretty creepy, almost-human mannerisms that I don’t always notice until he starts doing something undeniably Doggish. For instance. He just rolled his eyes at me and let out an audible sigh, followed by an audible fart, before plopping dejectedly down onto the couch, presumedly because nobody has taken him for a run in the last five hours. Then he licked his genitalia for at least three minutes straight. Sometimes I could swear he’s judging me, but then he gets his leash wrapped around his own legs or something, and I am reassured.

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Oh! I got a job. I’m a part-time receptionist/graphic artist for a cannabis club.

In other words: Fuck you, The Army. I have a new call sign now: