IN DREAMS YOU'RE MINE ALL OF THE TIME
Roy Orbison songs are the most romantic songs ever. Forget Blue Eyes, I'm talking about crooning albinos in black around shades singing creepy songs about how they dream about walking and talking with you, but they wake up and you're gone. No wonder David Lynch is such a fan.
No wonder I'm such a big fan. Of course, I did grow up listening to Roy Orbison and Buddy Holly almost every day on my way to elementary school. (Thank you, Dad, for instilling such important musical tastes in me.)
Since last we met, I've been hired to teach fiction at the Pennsylvania Governor's School of the Arts, won second place at the Adamson Awards for my personal essay "Letter to James Baldwin," and spent probably too much time cleaning. And cooking.
The good news is that school's almost completely done. I only have to write a paper tonight about the political implications of the paragraph. (Don't ask. Or, if you do ask, don't make fun of me.) That, and I have to revise my fiction portfolio. All in all, I'll be fine but I'd rather be done. I've been so surprised how much sleep I've needed to catch up on, and it feels just plain unfair to have to work again. I'd much rather hit the library, hit the coffee shop, and hit the kitchen with Ben. Ben is a fun kitchen buddy. Lots of yelling and "fuck you"s, but in that buddy-buddy way that lets everybody know that everything is FINE.
Mom and Dad, I miss you. Amsterdam and Paris sound like a lot of fun. But the other day, I missed you so much I bought an Utne Reader. And jeez, I'm listening to Roy Orbison and Buddy Holly. But yes, I can't wait to see you.
P.S. Also, De La Soul. Hell yeah.
Roy Orbison songs are the most romantic songs ever. Forget Blue Eyes, I'm talking about crooning albinos in black around shades singing creepy songs about how they dream about walking and talking with you, but they wake up and you're gone. No wonder David Lynch is such a fan.
No wonder I'm such a big fan. Of course, I did grow up listening to Roy Orbison and Buddy Holly almost every day on my way to elementary school. (Thank you, Dad, for instilling such important musical tastes in me.)
Since last we met, I've been hired to teach fiction at the Pennsylvania Governor's School of the Arts, won second place at the Adamson Awards for my personal essay "Letter to James Baldwin," and spent probably too much time cleaning. And cooking.
The good news is that school's almost completely done. I only have to write a paper tonight about the political implications of the paragraph. (Don't ask. Or, if you do ask, don't make fun of me.) That, and I have to revise my fiction portfolio. All in all, I'll be fine but I'd rather be done. I've been so surprised how much sleep I've needed to catch up on, and it feels just plain unfair to have to work again. I'd much rather hit the library, hit the coffee shop, and hit the kitchen with Ben. Ben is a fun kitchen buddy. Lots of yelling and "fuck you"s, but in that buddy-buddy way that lets everybody know that everything is FINE.
Mom and Dad, I miss you. Amsterdam and Paris sound like a lot of fun. But the other day, I missed you so much I bought an Utne Reader. And jeez, I'm listening to Roy Orbison and Buddy Holly. But yes, I can't wait to see you.
P.S. Also, De La Soul. Hell yeah.
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