Hello. I'm still alive. My life got a lot less boring. I'll fill you in soon. Sorry. No drawings yet, but here's the 2nd weirdest thing I've ever written. I'm almost embarrassed that it took me around an hour to write, but what the hell. It's missing some fancy layout. It was an assignment on what style writing is for English class, but it sounds like a poem. Here it is. It makes me smile and cringe.

this is the model…

I needta be stylin’ while I’m writin’ so I can strut my shit on the runway. So I’ll dress myself up with a clever analogy, spice it up graphically, add a rhyme from time to time-"POP!" in onomatopoeias (sound effects), creativity up to the neck. This is what style writing is. Dressing thoughts up with colors, textures, and tacky lime green socks with little individual pockets for each toe. Expressing the writer/fashion designer--expressing me. So check out my, oh so, very sexy, body.

These paragraphs are my body, curving in and out, but they differ from delicious breasts, hips, and thighs; they are less pleasing to the eyes, but excite your mind. And mine.

My brain, the train, steams through with thoughts in each car. TV cowboys on horses, trying to get on board make it hard, but I make due with thoughts not discarded. I rummage through each one like a gay fashion designer, finding scraps of happy emotion, quirky metaphors, and stitch together the most ambiguous, over-rated, piece of garbage people call art.

It’s black, and this dead tree models it for me. It models my style. This style. You love it because you think it’s sexy, because you don’t understand it, because I dressed it up with simple, scantily clad, words. You see its big breasts, fine hips, its curves... And tacky lime green socks with little individual pockets for each toe.

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