Full to Bursting

Dear Vicious Cycle readers, all twenty or so of you, you are important. I appreciate each of you. I am sometimes an unbearable person. Bear with me.

(If I were writing a different blog, I would post a picture of a teddy bear here. The teddy bear would be holding a stuffed heart or an even smaller teddy bear.)

I feel better about lots of things. I won't tell you about them. They're mostly boring things. The things that aren't boring are none of your business. Naturally, I will write about all of those things in my fiction.

I was jokingly asked to write more about rejections. It turns out rejections are pretty boring to write about too. Most of the rejections I receive are impersonal notes. But I will let you know the next time I get one. Any day now, I'm sure. If it's boring, I'll try to spice it up with sexual connotations or something. You know, like, "Best of luck placing your story elsewhere. . .in bed."

There were noises in the house again today. Door knobs turning and the like. I'm going to chalk it up to ghosts. I'm OK with ghosts as long as they're OK with me. I don't need homophobia from the spirit community. I will banish you, ghostly presence, if you call me a fag.

I made a mistake today. I started to trim my whiskers, but I forgot to check the setting on the electric razor. I now have a nearly clean-shaven face. This has not been the case since 2006. I can tell I've aged. I've lost weight, though, so a few points for me. Still, I don't want to go out in public with this face. It's strangely androgynous. Like I'm a librarian from a planet of genderless aliens.

My father and his wife are coming to visit this weekend. I get defensive about the city when I have visitors. Sometimes I feel embarrassed. It's like when someone comes to your home unannounced and you say, "Oh, there aren't usually dishes on the couch." But there are. All those things are always right there.

I saw piss in the snow today. It was Mountain Dew yellow-green. (Maybe it was Mountain Dew?) You wouldn't believe the volume.

There's talk of gender disparity in lit mags. Essentially, men are published more often than women in the major publications. My tiny amount of experience in the indie lit community suggests more equality and variety than you'd find in the major publications. And that makes sense to me. I think the best new voices can be found in online lit mags and small-press publications. Of course, I would say that. Most of these new voices I'm reading are women or gay men. I don't know what that says. Or maybe I don't want to say what that says. Maybe I'm tired of certain stories and these ladies and gentlegays are refusing to write those old stories. The romantic in me says the disparity is becoming less of an issue even as we argue about it, but I know it's not quite so simple. It never is.

Last night I had a dream about tame tigers. They lived in a penthouse suite. I roomed with them for one night. Every time they moved, I feared for my life. In this dream, I kissed a prince. Then I made him dinner. The housewifery is bleeding over into my dreamspace. I was not wearing an apron.