If someone tells you to write every day, don't believe them. Why write if you know it's going to be complete fucking garbage? Might as well do something useful like go to a movie.
Went to my favorite coffee place and wrote some garbage, did some reading. It was raining. There was a pretty girl there. There were a couple of other girls talking in Swedish or something, who the hell knows. If you think I'm going to tell you the name of this place, forget it. It's really small.
Pretty much the only reason I write everything on this blog is to get people to like me. It's getting pretty boring. Poetry is stupid.
I haven't applied to any jobs in at least half a year. I've been out of college four years. I don't know what the fuck I'm supposed to do. Starting to really regret ditching that Maurice Manning workshop halfway through the semester. Sorry, Maurice. I'm so stupid. One time a student was concerned that a poem of mine was "insensitive" to widows (it was a somewhat primitive Google poem using the phrase "widow blames"—I thought I invented this technique; only years later did I learn about flarf), and Maurice said to her, "You don't have to be sensitive to anyone in a work of art." That was pretty cool.
He was nice enough to let me audit his workshop—this was after I'd graduated, so I'd simply promised to do the work and show up even though there was no grade at stake. But I got tired of critiquing other people's poems—I've always hated trying to talk about art like that; I'm just not smart enough or well-read enough—and I felt bad that I wasn't keeping my promise, so I just stopped going one day without telling him. That was pretty stupid. He's a good teacher.