LightningRodOfHate

        She just had to typecast herself in the role of spoilsport. Here I was, knee-deep in the most epic day of my life, and she just had to throw the lifesaver of mundanity my way. The phone had been surgically grafted to my mother's ear all afternoon as she tied up all of the loose ends, smoothed out all of the rough edges. Extinguished all the fires. "He was incredibly reluctant, but I've managed to work out a special arrangement with Mr. Maloney." Her hair seemed different to me as she stepped out of her office. Greyer? "Suspension is off the table, under the condition that a chaperone accompanies you to class."        "Okay, I'm 17.

Dabbling in the Mind-Numbingly Archaic: A Chapter on Writing for the Stage (Still by Helen Chapman, in case you forgot.) Yes, this is a book on screenwriting and, no, a stage is not a screen. However, all modern day artists must learn from the past—this includes screenwriters. Surely Tarantino must have thoroughly studied Euripides; the evidence is in his work. Thanks to his careful research, instead of sitting through a boring afternoon of hearing about the Ancient Greeks being maimed and murdered, we get to actually see it all happen to our contemporaries! I'm positive that you, an aspiring screenwriter, haven't wasted any time lear

The old, decaying synesthete looks on, only a shred of worry in his eye. I am nothing more than experiment-- organic matter that will live or die. I diagnose him thus, you understand, because, though I stand plainly before him, he sees something entirely other, and only hears the clipboard in his hand. I close my eyes and meditate on striking stars, so bright that to see their light is to inhale shards of glass, ripping through the numb, bleeding out all feeling and desire. That night, that night, that night, when we sat like perfect angels discussing Michaelangelo's David like devils and you wore mirrors for eyes: A constel