Kyle Barnhart grew up in Panama City Beach, Florida: The Redneck Rivera of the Gulf Coast. He graduated from JR Arnold High School back in 2005 and immediately high-tailed it to Houston, Texas, to attend Rice University. He enjoys food and quantum mechanics and was the 2009-2010 co-editor of the Rice Thresher's Backpage. He has worked as a community development assistant at a local open educational resources web site, a web developer, IT computer-mover and freelance writer.
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My life needs a shocking jumpstart
So I'm pushing around a crash cart
But a kick in the saddle
Is hard with one paddle
It barbecues my little Barnhart!
Writer's block has a death grip
I can only pen quip after quip
Anything longer
And my words start to wander
My focus is starting to slip!
So give me a day or a week
To write something witty and sleek
something something
something something
I have class so excuse this poor geek.
Dear Grammy Awards,
If you're wondering why the 2008 Grammy Awards show failed to bring in any viewers whatsoever, you need only check your own list of nominees and winners.
Also, I had no fucking clue the awards were last night. Maybe the RIAA can spot you some cash for advertising next year. They seem to have enough money to put retarded ads in theaters and pay off lawyers to sue 8-year-old kids for downloading Kayne West.
But props for giving Herbie Hancock a Grammy. That's probably a step in the right direction.
Love,
Kyle
I have every topic in the world to talk about. I could talk about how happy I've been lately. I could talk about how I've been jogging and cutting out smoking and getting good grades and going to class and fleshing out a plan for after college and all the other things that have been peachy lately but...
...I'm also feeling downright uninspired. For all good that's come to me I feel completely incapable of expressing it in words. I've gone through three completely separate drafts for Thresher columns and toiled over two different works of fiction in my spare time, with each literary endeavor failing to meet whatever strange expectations I've come to place upon myself.
Writing is funny like that.
I know I have a lot of things to say. But every little caustic thought is trapped up in my noggin, where I don't have to worry about burning anyone else. You know me-- I like spilling my guts. I was raised to believe it's therapeutic but, then again, I was also raised Protestant.
Life doesn't need to get easier. I can handle this. I can handle everything and I am happy, I'm not just saying that. But I do need something. I need reassurance. I need to know that all this hard work, all this electrical engineering, and all my life's current endeavors are going to lead me to a happy place. That I'm not wasting my time. It doesn't have to be the place I expect now and it doesn't have to be soon.
I sure do have some weird expectations.
