Okay: so he didn’t ask for it in a rude way or anything.
But the man who I shake hands with in a very adult way (we wear fancy gloves) has mentioned that he’d like to read my blog.
Should I let him? I don’t say anything weird on here, do I? I mean, he does spend a considerable amount of time with me, so he knows I’m a fucking weirdo.
I got rid of a lot of stuff this weekend. You know what it felt like, watching my perfectly good yarn get into a car and drive away, and my brown tank tops get into garbage bags to be given to the Salvation Army, and my sofa bed hauled down the stairs to be sold into upholstered slavery? It felt like a bout of diarrhea that makes you cramp up and shiver. I feel better, but damn, that was a traumatic experience. Actually, shedding my hoarded goods was very, very close to taking a painful, hellish shit, the kind that burns like fire and smells like brimstone. I’m having the same mixed feelings, three days later.
Yes, let’s talk about toilet matters.
Creating a decoy blog for my mom and her churchy friends to read where I don’t talk about her and that I can send to my pop where I don’t mention that his crazy ass just had the house painted orange with black trim, “like Halloween!” Wish I were kidding–about all of it. It can’t be by Seer or connected to OH. Taking name suggestions. If you want the link, let me know.
I am thinking of selling dirty words. I’m financially scared right now, and I’d like some experience selling my work. And I need your help!
Yeah, I’ve written porn before. I’m sorry if that shocks you. Yes, I’ve written erotica for fun and for other people, and I’m thinking of writing it for money. If I decide to start another dirty stories blog, I’ll totally tell you all about it. And if I do get a book or stories published, I’ll spill that, too. Right now, I’m looking at all these publishers and their submission guidelines. These guidelines are like math problems. “So if a woman leaves Tallahassee at 9 am in a train going north at 40 mph and meets with five or more men, one every two hours, there’s another woman involved and there are some temporary flings, which imprint is it?” Can’t fault them for being specific!
How did I end up writing such tawdry business?
I’m trying to read and write more. Sparrow and Zorro Smitty are always talking about new writers, and I’m all out of the loop. Granted, I’m very well-read on the American and British Romantics, and I’ve read my Milton, and the Harlem Renaissance writers, and the prose works of e.e. cummings (you really ought to get down with The Enormous Room if you haven’t. It’s about his time in prison during the First World War, and it’s fantastic), but nobody cares about that stuff anymore. I open my mouth and it’s as if a pile of dustbunnies and cobwebs has fallen out. Musty old books–who cares? Nobody! On, on, on and on, on–I must move on to the new stuff the kids are reading. I mean, if I’m going to go to writers’ school, I’ll be laughed out the door if they find out I’ve never really read any Franzen (only a short piece or two), or David Foster Wallace! I haven’t, you know. And I’ve only read one book by Junot Diaz. I got tired of him when he was on the New Yorker welfare dole, along with Updike and V.S. Naipaul, who could write any bullshit they wanted and it would get published in the late 1990s, early 2000s, no matter how bad it was. There’s only so much Nabakov you can lean on, Seer, only so much Delillo you can have under your belt and say you’re well-read.
Yes, I mean you, my darlings, the nine to sixteen (sixteen now!) people who read this blog daily. I know you aren’t much for commenting, and you’re really not much for polls, and you read this in RSS readers, and I don’t know what they show, but I’m going to throw a poll out there anyways and see what I catch. It’s not about you, and it’s not about mini-backpacks, because those can choke on dick and die; it’s about me. Because I’m so fascinating and I’m so interesting and everybody at this school loves me so much.
No, I need some advice, please.
So at brunch (I’ll spare you, I think, pictures of my partially eaten chicken and waffles–off the motherfucking chain–I’m the worst at remembering to take pictures of the food before I bite it) I was telling everyone that I’m not one for fiction as much as subjective nonfiction (i.e., memoir–that’s what they call it these days to dress it up all fancy). I was telling everyone about this because I’m so interesting. Zorro Smitty disagreed with me. About the fiction, not the fascination. No, I told them because they’re my friends and we ask each other how we’re doing. And so they asked me about application anxiety.
Skelly had an enemy for years–“Black Newman,” her mailman. He was the worst mailman in the world. He would manage to crunch up a single letter by sticking it in the mailbox the wrong way. He would misdeliver wedding invitations that should have gone to the building next door–friendships are ruined over such things. He refused to accept Christmas presents left in the box for him (they were not addressed to “Black Newman”). Her hackles were raised when she saw him. It was a satisfying relationship, hating Black Newman. Then he was gone. Retired, perhaps. Now there’s a lull in her life. She needs a new nemesis.