So I'm retiring from my current dance company, and it looked to be one of those beautiful clean splits at the time the decision was made (read: Just waiting for the big suck to come crashing down ). Suddenly my artistic director (who by the way, for all of her bountiful talent, drive and experience, also has one of the largest inferiority complexes I've ever seen) dishes out two magnificent snubs aimed right at the target painted somewhere on my body. I wish I could find that damn target... I wash extra dilligently in the shower, but it doesn't seem to go away... Maybe it's a birthmark or something.
Now, I'm feeling a little less than spiffy- in fact, quite miffed .
Ah well, I'm making preparations to become this nation's next brilliant horror novelest, anyway. Speaking of which, any of you Suicide members out there have any wisdom or advice to share on breaking into the field of novel writing? I'm all ears
Now, I'm feeling a little less than spiffy- in fact, quite miffed .
Ah well, I'm making preparations to become this nation's next brilliant horror novelest, anyway. Speaking of which, any of you Suicide members out there have any wisdom or advice to share on breaking into the field of novel writing? I'm all ears