Calm please. Ice water in veins, please. We have 44 hours until shit on fan. Something will come to light.
BTW, I just read an excellent piece about artists and creating in the New York Times:
In the popular imagination, artists tend to exist either at the pinnacle of fame and luxury or in the depths of penury and obscurity — rarely in the middle, where most of the rest of us toil and dream. They are subject to admiration, envy, resentment and contempt, but it is odd how seldom their efforts are understood as work.
Harry, I think troubled times like these are what we should embrace: envy, resentment, contempt. These are our lot. Let us use this in our favor. Remember, Vera is an artist too. She has dreams too. I’m sure she has great big dreams, in fact. Perhaps you’ve discussed them with her?
I don’t know.
Please have more testicles. Do not be the twelve-year-old boy who votes for his opponent for student council.
You’re not going down this easy, and certainly not because of her.
Things sometimes appear differently in our minds than they do in actuality. Take for example, the jackalope. Lore had it that these mythical creatures, a fantastical cross between a jack rabbit and an antelope. But in fact, they were simply
BUNNIES WITH CANCER. They had tumors spurred by the Shope papilloma virus, which causes the growth of horn- and antler-like growths on the head.
So not magical, just sad.
Here’s a visual. This bunny has cancer.
What are you talking about?
We are all primarily spiritual beings; we are just having a temporary physical experience.
Please stop. I’m not in the mood to try to follow you.
When all is well and you are a famous writer in ten years, you must start using your full name. Harrison Angus Goodman. Writers have three names if they’re any good. If you fail at writing and become a lawyer, you may use just the middle initial. Harry A. Goodman. If you fail the bar and are forced to become a pop star, you may simple go by: Harrison.
I can barely sleep. I feel like I’m living a complete lie. I wake up in panic, my heart beating through my chest, and I swear she must be able to hear its beating, to smell my lie, my very ungoodness. I can’t stand this feeling, Matilda! I feel like I am losing my mind.
Huh. I feel that way all the time. Once a month, in fact. Maybe that’s why men are less good at emotions— women are literally trained by being hormonally whip-lashed all fucking month long.