THE ARCHIVES

I saw this questionnaire floating around the blogosphere, and thought I'd give it a go. Quirky questions, quirkier answers. You get the gist.

Revisiting this piece, written at age eighteen.

I went home one year ago. And now I’m not going back.

My creative writing class gave me pizza as a random poetry topic. This is what I came up with.

A letter, in which the author calls bullshit.

From, that girl that you probably don't remember.

The day started well. He had felt a curious sense of calm as he rocked out of the Tempur-pedic, flossed his teeth twice, and made eggs, two of which he fed to the turtle. Six capsules went down with eight ounces of fruit punch, and in a bathrobe, he sat down at his 1963 Remington, and began to type.