I’m a writer. At least that’s what I’m paying tuition to be called. I go to Columbia—Columbia College, the arts and media school in the armpit of downtown Chicago. If you’re ever in the vicinity and itching to take a look-see just follow the trail of blue-haired smokers, and more than likely it’s probably that building—that large, brick, mortuary of stresS and strangled art, floating on a cloud of nicotine.
I’ve lived in Chicago all my life. Only few and far between have I ever seen grasS grow beyond her borders and the times that I have: Detroit, San Diego, Venice, and a few pastures in between... the grasS still grew green which made little difference to me as I was never obligated to cut it. Yes, I am proficient in lawn mowing, as well!
In some circles I am considered an artist and if you talk to the right people they’d agree. Those that neglect art as being the epicenter of who and what I am are perpetrating and have no prior "Ken" experience and are thus considered the wrong people—discard their opinions. Immediately!
I’m walking in this bright and audacious New Year blind folded yet spirited. What’s suppose to transpire this year, and by "suppose to" I mean I’ve prayed relentlessly for it so I hope it to happen: I am to turn the delectable age of 23 in early October, I am to finish my sophomore year of school and god willing further pursue monogomy with my lover, enter my junior year, make enough moolah to begin repaying these loans, and devise a plan of action for the immediate years following Columbia. Graduate school, perhaps? Rome, here I come! I’m excited! There’s so much to be excited for! I have beautiful friends, a (moderatley) healthy family (provided they quit coughing), and I love living. Thank you, Jehovah!
So without further ado, may I please welcome you to, my home, my cyber abode of thoughts and fiction and whatever the hell else I bring to the table! 1544. Thanx!
Ciao!
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