Fire, and Ice, and Rage...

First off, apologies for sucking at the internet. Life sucks. But it's summer now (technically. For me anyway. Who really cares if it snowed during my summer break. Summer's still summer, right?), so I shall do my best to post more and comment and be ~involved~ and social and whatnot. So someone punch me if I slack off.

My sister had writing camp this week, and today she mentioned how one of the authors there was saying how everyone has a story, or something to say, and that it was a great message and total truefax. But then, the next author came up and was all "Yeah, I disagree with her. You don't need a story to tell. I once wrote a poem, I don't know what it means now, and I didn't know what it meant then." I chose to play Guess-the-annoying-idiotic-author game. "R.P. MacIntyre?" (And yes, I had to google how to spell that.) We went on to have a nice rant about what an egotistical douche he is. He talked at our school when I was in grade 12, and was also at writing camp that year. I hate him with a passion. He doesn't seem to write because he wants to, or even because he likes to, but just because he somehow gets a paycheck. And that just rubs me the wrong way. And he's just creepy.

Oh, and hello to new friends!!