I've been on a year or so long YA fiction and Murakami/magical realism kick. Now, it's time for some grit. Classics, too. Time to get my Faulkner on. Maybe some Steinbeck up in here. (Ayn Rand is not invited.)
And poetry. I am so freakin' in the mood for poetry.
And eccentric, mildly unsettling art projects.
Maybe more piercings or tattoos.
I'm feeling kind of classically, pretentiously, young and rebellious...and I'm sort of okay with it. Well, maybe that isn't the right word, but I'm going with it. I feel like it's time for some depravity. Some lesson learning. Some life. (Granted, I'm typing this while drinking apple juice out of a box with a bendy straw, but still.)
It feels like a run away and join the circus kind of summer. An excessive skinny dipping, blackberry picking, urban exploring, muddy, screaming, flaming shenanigans kind of summer.
A good summer for a felony.
Or romance.
Tomato, tomato.
(Also, my lease is up in just over a week, and another roommate hit the road this morning. Pretty soon, the Beard and I will be parting ways. Where am I headed, you may ask? The hilariously low-ceilinged loft of a man who goes by...wait for it...Matty Gaga.
He's got a turtle. I'm pretty psyched.
Oh, life.)
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