32 Chicago, IL
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What I’m doing with my life
I write fiction.
I’m really good at
I see through everything.

On a funny note, I just went to New York for the first time. I see how petty and inept a lot of people in Chicago are now. Second City indeed.
Favorite books, movies, shows, music, and food
Faulkner. Faulkner. Faulkner. Faulkner. Faulkner. Salinger. Junot Diaz. Russel Banks. Jhumpa Lahiri. Edward P. Jones. John McNally. Celine. Flaubert. Mark Twain. Flannery O'Connor. Phillip Roth. Frederick Exley. Ishiguro. Tennessee Williams. Cormac McCarthy. Toni Morrison. Francine Prose. Nami Mun (she was one of my teachers, and she's fucking awesome). And so on...

Malick. I love film and could go on forever. Malick is enough. Oh, and, Sam Fuller.

Wu-Tang Clan.
The six things I could never do without
I think this is dumb.
I spend a lot of time thinking about
The world. I think it's troubling in so many ways. But then I think of how awesome my grandma is. Then I keep trying.

I also think about storytelling a lot.
On a typical Friday night I am
What's special about Friday night?
The most private thing I’m willing to admit
I'm infinitely patient, yet, somehow, I'm also infinitely impatient. The ambivalence is due to people. I usually lose my patience with people very quickly.
You should message me if
If you watch this video http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4TBGt5K0s8c and find it to be a work of genius. Because it is.

Or this (I hope there are still people out there who understand subtext): http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zQucWXWXp3k

Or if you think the following is cool

The truth about the world, he said, is that anything is possible. Had you not seen it all from birth and thereby bled it of its strangeness it would appear to you for what it is, a hat trick in a medicine show, a fevered dream, a trance bepopulate with chimeras having neither analogue nor precedent, an itinerant carnival, a migratory tentshow whose ultimate destination after many a pitch in many a mudded field is unspeakable and calamitous beyond reckoning.

It was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, farther westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.

Because no battle is ever won he said. They are not even fought. The field only reveals to man his own folly and despair, and victory is an illusion of philosophers and fools.