They Better Love Me
After hanging on my bulletin board, like a forgotten tampon, for six months, I finally brought down the catalog for Printed Matter and started reading it yesterday. It makes me all quivery inside. As they announced in the prologue, they are very selective. Being purveyors of "real artist's book", we can count on them to make those fine judgments. Being submerged with all that real art is enough to make me
b) chant some self-affirming statements to counteract the growing sense of ego-doom.
c) immediately begin cleaning off my drafting table so that I can begin making some "real art."
d) eat chocolate, or get smashed.
My stomach is empty, so "a" is out of the question. B is a real contender, since that doesn't involve brain-cell death, or expense. C is out, that is work. D is also out, for the same reason B is in.
The perfume of the last tenant-hopeful still lingers in the placid air of 327. I feel like I should do something... the floor of my room is still barely discernible, and the various fat people in my mind are screaming to be put on paper.