Word Surgeons

We've been at it for hours now, Austin and I, patching these things called poems together with stitches and blood and stress and laughter. He got the very very first draft of mine tonight, so we had a lot of work to do. He's in isolation now, working hard, so we can do his tonight too. Early morning online workshops are just damn fun. Ireland stuff all submitted now, so I just wait until the last week in March and then they tell me if I get to go or not. But. California to look forward to. Jason, Austin's older brother, has decided not to hate me, which excites me immensely. It'll be much easier to charm him if he's not feeling malicious at me beforehand. Still have lots of laundry to do before I can pack. Maybe tomorrow? Maybe not. I don't want to pack clothes, I just want to pack my basketball predicitions and printouts, my poetry, and books. And green body paint. I'll just wear that all week. Heh. They'll love me. I'll be a hit.
On our list of things to do:
Talk to Arnold. Austin needs a job, and California needs a Poet Laureate.
Rob the Wells Fargo where Jason works.
Build a snowman in Tahoe.
And I want to go the prison and sing Johnny Cash.