I have every intention of being as pompous as possible this month as I write my masterpiece for NaNoWriMo, so that if I fail and fall, I crack my chin off my own ego. Now I've got self-preservation on my side--Ima kick this contest's ass.
That said, here's the first two sentences of the first paragraph of the rest of my life:
and then there was White, popped into infinitivey like a syntaptic bubble abottom aboiling pot, naked and thickly viscous as the day he was cast. Lights came first, of course: dizzying frizzying pulzating mosquitoes of illumafervescent noble ineobriated gaskeous spacetimeplacesettingharacterealityplot that seemed for all the world to be more conscious being itself than a bigbangerly connection to it.
I know it's genius enough right now to send to the printers, but I'll revise everything in December, refining my infinite creativité after I've spewed it wonderfully onto my Mactop for thirty days.
That said, I'm not sure what all the grammatical pseudowords are doing in there right now, but I have a feeling they'll find their place soon enough.
In other news:
That girl from last post? I thought she was my age. Adjusting for the strange youth in the face of every Japanese, I supposed 28. This Saturday, she'll be 34. Everyone over here seems to be obsessed with unconscionably older women, so they're all astruck with congratulations, but I just feel strange and uncomfortable.
I cook rice better than grocery stores, but not better than restaurants.
I ate beef tongue last Sunday. It tasted like beef, but it sprang around in my mouth, which was gross enough. It's called tan.
I like one Outkast album, but not the rest.