C. E. Frizzell's Page

I am a young woman with the highest hope and expectation of being a writer.

I see the world through thick spectacles and observe even the tiniest of things, these scribbled notes consigned to the massive Rolodex in my mind.

I am a realist whose most hated question ("Is the glass half empty or full?") throws me into a rage. Was the glass full and then drunk from, I will scream, or was the filler struck down by a projectile fruit half-way through the task of filling the glass? If such is the case, what breed of projectile fruit?

I am a kooky individual. I love the tone and texture of conversation more than its words. I love tattoos. I love the sound of a tattoo machine and the promise of art that sound brings. I love the feel of pulsating needles and the warmth of latex gloves against flesh. I love the greased back hair of my tattoo artist, the almost obsessive compulsive behavior of the smoking co-worker/artiste and the light which glints off of the most adorable face of the resident piercer/tattoo apprentice. But more than anything, my soul keens for the written word.