I got bitten today.

Grr.

... See- I don't have anything against dogs. I like dogs. I like dogs quite a lot.

When I DON'T like dogs is when they skulk around and put their noses in bins and run out of gates and tear each other to bits over the one girldog in the house- which is pretty much all mine have been doing recently.

But yeah, I got bitten trying to tear my dogs apart so they wouldn't tear each other apart and it's fine, I'm fine; but still.

Couldn't we have reared cats? Or, like, unicorns, or something?

My sister's applying for SOTA this Thursday. We talked about it on the planeride home and I hope she gets it, if it's what she wants; truly I do.

... still, though. I felt a little pang of something, definitely.

I remember when I wanted to enrol in an Arts school, yeeeears back. My dad's mouth went down at the corners and my mum's foot started tapping against the tiles and no matter how I pleaded they said no. I was always the one with the good grades (okay, disclaimer: back then. now not so much) and the invitations to school events and (as much as I resent this) nobody quite equated "arts" with "bright future".

So I saved my theatrics for drama club (and relationships, har) and my singing for the shower, and knuckled down to getting to that elusive (but!) Great Glorious Future of mine everybody else but me could see.

Sometimes I wonder.

But I don't regret anything in Life, I don't think, not even the messups and the major catastrophes I have too often triggered. Everything for a reason.

And I hope she gets in. Sincerely, I do! I told her, "remember this, darling: you're not just auditioning for yourself. You're auditioning for the both of us" and it's true. And if she does get in, I will do everything in my power to help her.

... Life epiphanies aside. Today's been pretty productive, all things considered.

I finally started on my H3 Lit- which is a big Wow and to be commended verily, verily. I still wish I hadn't chosen Kerouac's On The Road, though. As much as I love the guy, and love the book... I mean- what was I thinking- the guy was HIGH ON DRUGS.

Have you ever tried analyzing the literary magnificence of a guy high on drugs?

It's like listening to and trying to make coherent sense of what your friend says over the phone when you pick up her call at 4 in the morning and she's had one too much tequila shots. Only this time it's a 289-page-long drunk phonecall.

O well.

I'm a Lit Kid, and I still love this book, and therefore I WILL somehow make sense of Kerouac's substance-induced magcifinence. I mean magnificence.

Speaking of Lit... I've been trying to write something for the upcoming Lit Up competition. No such luck, though- the Muses aren't being my BFFs today. Not with this particular theme, which happens to be "Colour and/or Move". I assume they mean "movement", but okay.

... Colour? I could think of a thousand things to write about colour, each one with you as their warm canvas- but each of them cliched, overused, tired; and no way no how am I going to submit Cliches. "My business is to create", said Blake, and spewing cliches isn't creating. It's doing a disservice to whoever ends up reading the pseudo-trash I write, because it's plagiarism and it's lying and yes EVERYBODY lies anyway, most/least? o f all writers and artists and actors but if I'm going to lie, I'm going to come up with a newer, fresher deceit than "the dog ate my homework".

so I'm not going to write that your eyes still remind me of lakes in the summer. or that your hands felt like a father's.

I'll spin you into a mountain and write about avalanches; weave the you-character into the cosmos and write about life truths at large so nobody will read your name in my ink.

and then I'll randomly paragraph all of it, give it a glibly ambiguous title and tell them it's a poem.

plan A?

I think so.