writers are liars

I'm pretty tired of writing poetry, I've decided. It's ironically tiresome to pretend to be emotionally burdened in ways that I am actually not. I'm not a writer and this poetry class is exhausting.

My boyfriend took me to the museum not too long ago and they had this exhibit of wood sculptures that made me jealous that I do not work with my hands. I'm not sure how people make wood look MORE like wood or make it not look like wood or even manage to make a bowl seem artistic when it's just a simple bowl, yet it's not. I've never been able to do this and it frustrates me sometimes.

The weather is getting warmer and that means disc golf and telescopes and cookouts and kite flying and nights on the patio with him and hookahs and First Friday Art Trail and playing sports I am inevitably bad at. These things make me excited and I can feel the seasons changing. It makes me antsy - like the eve before a really big trip with friends.

I'm going to redo my site. I've just decided this as I've been typing this entry.

I am optimistic and artistically impulsive and happy. These are all good things.