The summer is under way and I spend all my time off work with my typewriter writing on ugly yellow paper (and I say this with yellow being my favorite color) with red ink. Red ink because I need a new ribbon. I’m usually drunk because I decided that alcohol was a cheaper, more efficient fuel source than food. Not that I stopped eating, just not as much.

I’ve found lit nonfiction is easier to write with a bit of whiskey in my blood— and my neighbors are upset because I alternate between blasting staticy avante-noise and Townes van Zandt while pounding on my rusty Smith-Corona.

I’m not getting as much done as I’d like, but thats because I also am reading more than usual. That said things I plan(ned) to write this summer include:

• a critical essay on racist simianism and perceptions of urban junglism (independent study)
• an essay about planet of the apes and the current state of cultural/political affairs (Working title: Welcome to Planet of the Apes: A Mythography of White Fear)
• a break up guide for het women entitled “Finish Him.” (co-author: my best friend, ZPG).
• work on a book about post-secondary education with a certain professor
• weekly posts for Vegans of Color (I used to blog there a lot)
• a literary nonfiction piece about my grandparents, North Georgia, and death (Possible Titles: “Chickamauga” or “Stagnant Water”
• outline a play for that damn drama department contest in December
• a good poem, as oppossed to the shit I usually write.

Recently all I want to do is write. I just need to sit down and do it.