A Queer Vietnamese-Houstonian-New Yorker Writer musing about the arts and absurdities when not screenwriting or playwrighting

Filtered Stream of Consciousness of 8/12

Oh gawd, starting this in the middle of night 3:42 am as I procrastinate on sleep. Oh Nessa Nessa Nessa. Why couldn’t I go before 11. Essay grade result will come this Tuesday. Oh, oh, will I get a B? Oh, oh, it’s the same pattern. My graduate shatter the routine, add a discordant note to the routine. Netflix fix me. No, sleep, sleep.

Fantasize, dream big, no dad, it’s good for me, it’s therapeutic I’m thinking now of a screenplay once again will I finish it this time. I

Shall I master rejection. Not to be the rejected but rejection. No not be the one rejecting but to master rejection like one fanfic writers takes constructive criticism. IS it worth it. Gloria as my witness. Whitney as my witness if I dare divulge this info to her? If I even have the gall to make me a witness.

Oh the split screen project. That split screen.

On in the tinted office. The light seems deliberate. Did an cinematography give consultants to the office?

Mom was brave, didn’t think of that. I was brave too I guess.

The sun brightens it like nature meds. The room in the active learning classroom freezes. It’s an incubator for better things. The outside is where I should be.

I saw Matilda yesterday, lovely, lovely, now there are thoughts of finishing that hundred word review. I wish I met the girl. Get autography, get photo like I did with the Billy Elliot years back. Why didn’t the Matilda get Acting Tonys?

End journal and hopefully the headache.


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