14 April 2002 - 4:29 p.m.

Last night I was kicking myself for trucking all the way to Homestead for a party that jolted my volts not at all, but, oh well. I should not have expected it to best Friday's festivities anyway. And as you may have guessed, I did not drink last night. As much as I love being a boozy little tart, I'm not a masochist, and I had to write a lot today.

Speaking of which, you know what I hate? When a writer who is completely inferior to me gives me comments like, "You seem to be having the some of the same problems I am having in making the characters interesting, rounded people, and not just vessels for the plot."

Now, there are not many writers who are inferior to me. I do not mean to suggest that I am anything other than a lazy dilettante who gets phenomenally lucky every time she sits down to work on her novel, which, sorry Aitch, is not something she does every day, contrary to every bit of advice she's ever gotten. But I do mean to suggest that I shouldn't have to takes this crap from a computer science major who has acheived nothing more than a trio of sterotypes plowing through a totally hackneyed situation written with no style whatsofriggin ever.

I guess it's just one of those things - I get mad praise from writers who completely blow me away, and harsh criticism from people who can't make it beyond cliche. That, I suppose, is the hazard of taking a fiction class.

Also, I want a vintage bathing suit.

Wait, was that unrelated?

What I'm wearing:

What I'm reading:

What I'm doing after this: