Literary Phoney.

Literary Slumber gives me a forum to flex my grammatical muscles drunkenly for a very small audience that consists of either family members or ex lovers whom are putting me through the corrupt American legal system. The only rule I impose and attempt to enforce is "Dont let this become a livejournal." With the recent and upcoming drama, we're going to tip-toe that LJ line very frequently this Summer.

For those following the ongoing L.S. story lines, I have returned to eating in a big big way. I am a man who loves food. Silly trials like life-altering depression can only avert my pizza gaze for so long. That is how my body keeps itself in check. Every few months it'll decide to starve itself for any number of hours, allowing the previous weeks of satisfaction to appropriately cleanse themselves. It's the numbing stomach pains I'd like to avoid- those are a little rarer, every eight months or so, yet still too frequent. Luckily I've never suffered one of those while in the company of a lover- it typically begins, middles, and ends with me near-tears in a running bath-tub like Turk after a nightful of steak.

What an odd paragraph.

I want to major in English when I go back to school. I want to pursue the whole writing gimmick, and I want to master this language. Yet, I find myself censoring a large portion of the literary universe out of my mind.

These names are on the black list:

Sylvia Plath
Ted Hughes
Charles Bukowski
Anais Nin

and others.

There's a collection of Ferlinghetti books I will be ordering this weekend that I nearly stopped myself from even researching.

When any of the above names come up, or whenever I dive too deep into the world that English majors delve into, I feel like I need to share it with Sara. As if I'm intruding on her turf.

Well, not so much intruding, more like she would know or want to know about these books.

I won't allow myself to read a Plath or a Bukowski, because I know I'll be treading ground that is familiar for her. That part is completely understandable to me, as I am still not over the entire situation that has happened and continues to progress.

What isn't understandable for me is how I limit myself from reading new works of poets or authors I've already enjoyed, just because there is an off chance she might like it as well, or because I feel like I'm supposed to share it with her.

She didn't even like my writing, and to this day doesn't buy me as a reader or writer.