Plumb Tuckered Out

I'm back. It felt good to share Kentucky. Before I left, I saw this begging in the eyes of my family like, "Please don't leave." It was hard to see those eyes. I left anyway. The thing my family knows is I always leave. Kentucky isn't home anymore. Kansas City isn't home either. I don't know what home is, but I think it's the person you love. Whenever I'm with Josh, I'm home.

I got sick on bourbon. I will get sick on bourbon again. We did a bourbon tasting. I found my favorite bourbon. It's called 1792. That's the year Kentucky became a state. If you meet me and you have nothing else to say, you can say you know when Kentucky acquired statehood. I will give you a kiss on the hand.

I must have been looking in weird mirrors in Kentucky because I didn't notice the weight I was gaining. I went to the bathroom when we got back to Kansas City and I looked in the mirror, my mirror, the one that shows my true reflection like no other, and I could see the roundness returning to my face and belly. Oh well. I walk for a living pretty much.

My sister uses the word "plumb" quite a bit. As in, "I'm plumb tuckered out." Which is to say she's exhausted.

I want to use more Kentucky words, but I already don't like the faces people make when I speak. There were moments this past weekend when I started talking and the person I was talking to didn't know what to do with their face. It takes me a while to say anything. Josh calls my speech "melodic and deliberate." OK. It's more like I have blocks of words in my head and I'm trying to put them in some sort of order even as I'm saying them. The end result is a sentence that usually works better backwards. Imagine if people listening to me had to contend with that AND folksy regionalisms.

I ate a hot brown. It sounds gross, but it's tasty. My mother made fun of Josh for using the word "tasty" so much. I guess people in Kentucky don't say food is tasty. They just lick their fingers.

There's so much more Kentucky stuff and almost none of it matters. What matters is I developed a miniature crush on a bartender and I saw him on three separate occasions around town. The basis for the crush was the bartender's accent and how cute he looked wearing an apron. I cook all the time. Where's my apron? Where's my accent?

My seizure/museum story was accepted for publication by a magazine I've been crushing on. The story is bare bones and cold as a skeleton made out of frozen milk, but it's good. I'll tell you where it is when it's there. For now, I'm here again.

Naughty by Nature

I drove 600 miles today. Josh rode shotgun. He didn't help me drive on account of that DUI. Just kidding. Josh has never gotten a DUI or a driver's license. We're in Kentucky now. There are rolling hills across the street. I'm lying. There are duplexes. My grandmother used to live in one of those duplexes. Now she lives in my childhood home. I don't know who lives in her old duplex. Probably someone. I hope they use the fireplace more than my grandmother did.

Today is my birthday. I'm 26. Facebook people sent me wishes. I'm trying to reply to each wish. This girl told me to plant a tree (today is also Earth Day). I made up a lie about planting a tree. The tree in the lie grew a vagina-shaped hollow. I bet you've seen a tree like that. It's nothing to be ashamed of. Mushrooms look like penises. Mother Nature is a pervert. Spring has sprung, which is why I saw a cat chasing another cat in a Taco Bell parking lot today.

I'm writing a play about a couple who only want the best for their child.

There's a place in my hometown that sells only olive oil and balsamic vinegar. I want to smell this place. There's a gallery at the museum that smells like olive oil. There's another gallery that smells like Fig Newtons. I want to chronicle the smells of each gallery and help design a tour brochure explaining the science behind the smells.

My body is still moving at 80 mph. I'm in bed, but I can't stop moving. I will dream that I stop, but in the morning, I will wake up in the ocean.

Creepsters Union

When a man expresses his attraction for you, it doesn't make him creepy. If you aren't attracted to him, that still doesn't make him creepy. If he's older than you or bigger than you, that doesn't make him creepy either. What makes a man creepy is if he expresses his attraction, is rebuffed, then continues to express his attraction in a way that makes you uncomfortable after you've CLEARLY expressed that discomfort. By clearly, I mean saying it in words that aren't ambiguous. Nervous giggles are ambiguous.

If you complain to me about being hit on, I'm going to say, "I'm sorry someone took the time to let you know you're attractive. How awful that must have been for you. Sit down, you must be exhausted. Do you need anything? Anything at all?" Then I will lick my hand and slap you on your face. You will feel hurt and disgusted. You will feel how I feel.

I'm rarely checked out, at least in any way I notice. Men don't often hit on me. Still, I'm a sucker for the rare occasion a man says I'm attractive. I'm happy to hear it, like any other human being on the Earth planet. I don't even have to find him attractive to be flattered.

I find some of my friends attractive. I hope they're flattered.

I had a dream last night about a hot redheaded man named Diffrick. He was shirtless and smoking a cigarette outside my childhood church. He had a dotting of shoulder freckles. It pressed most of my buttons. Diffrick is a real name people have, says Google, says my brain when I'm dreaming.

If you asked me to name the nameless characters in my stories, I'd name them all Jack, even the women and children. Jack is no name for a child, though. You could name a dog Jack, but you'd have to tie a bandana around his neck instead of a collar. This dog would catch criminals. He would look like he was smiling when he panted. It would sound like he was saying your name when he barked. He would open doors with his mouth. He would be Velociraptor smart. I'm not a dog person. Naming a dog Jack would give the dog the wrong idea. Don't give the name Jack to anything you love.

What I Don't Know

Maybe there's a scene in my novel where someone gets stabbed. I've had nightmares where I'm stabbed in public and no one stops to help me while my guts are spilling out. I don't know what that means.

Work is weird. No, not work. People. Work doesn't care either way. I got a headache today at work. There's this colonial American room with these windows that are backlit to look like it's a nice day outside. The lights are fluorescent. If I look at them too long, my forehead feels pressed like something inside is growing and shrinking, growing and shrinking. I don't know anything about the human body.

I'm going to see an amateur opera performance on Friday. It's happening in a church. It'll be the first time I've been in a church since God knows when. Ha ha. But really, I've never seen an opera. I don't know anything about opera.

I have a story up at Metazen. It's about a Kentucky friend. She's been writing me letters. I read them with the reverence and immediacy of Elizabeth Bennet. I want a new culture of letters. Don't worry. I don't get what I want. I have a few pen pals, though. If you're one of them, I'll be writing you soon. I don't know how to write in cursive anymore, so be warned. I've had teachers tell me I write like a little girl. Every word I write looks like a popping balloon.

My birthday is on Good Friday this year. When I was in high school and "on fire for the Lord," I used to participate in this event where we'd fake crucify someone dressed as Christ. There was this resurrection scene involved. I remember suggesting we make Christ wear a robe that glittered in the spotlights. Someone said, "That's the gayest thing I've ever heard." Well, duh.

I don't know a lot of people I want to know. I have this problem where I read a piece of writing and then I want to know the writer. I guess that's not a problem. I know some writers now. I imagine one of them is my friend, as far as the internet can take that sort of thing. We've shared our tastes in porn. There's no going back.

People Who Need People

I've been thinking a lot about fear. I've been thinking about it in terms of writing and who we are when we're writing and who we let read that writing and if it matters what they think about us after they read that writing. I came out to my parents in a letter when I was 15. I was afraid, but not anymore. You don't fear responses to your writing after that.

I'm afraid of spider bites, but not spiders. I'm afraid of the instability of structures. I'm afraid of the largeness of this country. I'm afraid of saying the wrong thing. I'm afraid I want to be a poet. I'm afraid I don't care enough about the things other people care about. I'm afraid I don't play the right social games. I'm afraid there will be no one like Judy Garland ever again. I'm afraid I'll start singing "The Man That Got Away" when I'm in the grocery store. I'm afraid I look like a badger.

I'm afraid of you, but not your hot body, just your (hot) talent. I'm afraid of your book coming in the mail because then I'll read it and decide I have nothing to say because you said it all. No, really, that terrifies me. It will not stop me from reading your book.

This weekend, I had wine on the front porch with Josh and a friend. This is the friend who sings and plays the fiddle. It was a beautiful night for sitting on the front porch. There was a hot wind like I imagine they have in Spain. Josh and my friend talked acting and auditions. I got to sit there in an alien world and be happy I don't have to get up in front of people and sing.

I think my grandmother kind of looks like Judy Garland.

I have a story going up soon. I'll let you know where.

A Very Rigorous Correspondence

A friend is coming to live with us for the summer. It sounds like the plot to something. I can't wait. Summer is the best time.

Everything I've been writing lately wants to be a novel. It's because I've been reading novels. Hemingway, of course, but I think Isherwood is next.

I go back to the museum on Wednesday where I will stand on my feet for hours and write stories in a little notebook and develop crushes on attractive male visitors. I have more crushes in this weather because I can see more body parts.

There were some animals in our walls last week. I don't know if they're still there. I haven't heard them. They seemed to be nocturnal. Maybe it's more ghosts. Maybe they read my blog. Maybe they know I'm not opposed to ghosts. Maybe they have claws, because it sounds like they have claws. Ghosts with claws. I don't know about that.

My birthday is this month. Josh and I might go to Kentucky. I'm turning 26. Should that matter to me? I guess it's closer to 30, but I'm not afraid of turning 30. I'll be a better writer when I'm 30. And then I'll be a better writer when I'm 40. And on and on. I don't want to be a better person, I want to be a better writer. I wonder what it means that I don't want children. I want books.

I had a submission get lost. I submitted a story to a lit mag in January and I was supposed to hear back after six weeks. Well, it's April. I reread the submission. If the lit mag eventually reads it, they will reject it. I want to forget I wrote that story. It's not very good. I mean, there's a good story there, but I haven't written it yet.

I submitted a new story this weekend to one of my favorite literary magazines. I'm close to this story. The character has epilepsy. He has a seizure. I've never written the scene of a seizure just right, even though I have epilepsy. I think I wrote it right this time. It's subtle, but right. Maybe someone will agree with me.

A friend sent me a letter, an honest to God letter. She's sending me a fountain pen so I can write letters too. Here's one of my favorite lines from her letter: "I hope we strike up a very rigorous correspondence."

Which brings me here. If you want to strike up a very rigorous correspondence, send me your address and I will write you a letter as long as you promise to write one back. Yes, you, I mean you, all of you, any of you. I don't care if I know you or not. I'll put your letters in a shoebox and when I'm really old and near death I'll read your letters to the people keeping me alive. I'll make up stories about how close we were back then. We were so close, weren't we? We knew everything there was to know about each other. We did.

Public Restroom Black Magic(k)

People I admire said nice things about my story, 'Other Sons.' I am still young. That sort of thing matters to me. After a while, maybe it will matter less.

I spent the weekend out of town. When I came back, the house was the same. Every time I open a door in this house, I expect to interrupt a party. This is probably because I believe the house is haunted. Our ghosts are polite. I think they spend a lot of time reading. They are very quiet ghosts. They are sometimes passive-aggressive. They hide Josh's library card. We have so many books already, going to the library seems like an extravagance. That's what the ghosts are thinking. We are of one mind.

I'm making a pizza tonight, maybe two. We have a pizza stone now. I expect things like that to change my kitchen life, but I pretty much just need sauce pans and mixing bowls. And spoons. God, I use so many spoons.

I have so many literary crushes. My literary crushes are amazing because I know they are sitting at their computers eating handfuls of dry cereal trying to think of something to write. We are in the same boat. My literary crushes just have the added burden of being SMOKING HOT.

If I started writing under a pseudonym, my pseudonym would be Will Suffice. I meet the minimum requirements for everything. I am just good enough.

I have a secret. I subscribe to two literary magazines. They are magazines of speculative fiction. I like reading strange stories. I like writing them, too.

A list of strange things that have happened to me or other people I know: The Spooklight. Spontaneous duplication of inanimate objects. Spontaneous invisibility. Ghost mice. Hearing my name in the sound of falling water. Prophetic dreams. Minor synchronicities. People other people can't see. Occult cupboard. Predicting the outcome of the 2008 Presidential election with a pendulum in 2007. Disembodied growls. A box of magic(k) wands. Art. Roots shaped like hands. A mandolin playing itself in its case. Reflections in mirrors. Disappearances/reappearances. Shoulder tapping. Erotic auras. Crossroads offerings. Air that is heavy with violence. Tarot card pregnancies. Crazy shit.

But really, a guy in a public restroom once confided in me that he was a werewolf. I asked him to prove it. He said he would find me the next full moon. Every time a dog barks at night, part of me thinks it's that werewolf guy looking for me.

The Devil Took My Language

I'm pissed, but I can do nothing about it. Warmer weather would make it better. I need to do my taxes.

On St. Patrick's Day, I got to sit on my front porch and drink beer with a friend. It was very nice. It felt deserved, though I'd done nothing to deserve it.

I feel like I have nothing to say lately. Like I've been saying it elsewhere, which is true, I've been writing a lot. I always write a lot, but right now I'm writing some longer stories and I think they're taking all my language. I've said this before. Sometimes, I just don't have the words.

I went to a delicious brunch last weekend. I feel bad because I didn't have words then either. I'd been up all night, which is a story for another time, but it's a story you have to understand in context. I don't think I can ever tell it to strangers. I certainly couldn't tell it at brunch and that's kind of a shame. The story is about having no shame, so maybe the story itself should have no shame. I do not know. Get me drunk and I will tell you the story.

I have ridiculous hope for the next batch of stories I'm preparing for submission. They are something else, I'm going to say.

I've been listening to a lot of blues, particularly Robert Johnson. I need more songs where the Devil makes an appearance. I think KE$HA should be singing more about the Devil.

I made a quiche last night, like with a crust and everything. When I do that, I see the quiche and what I really want is a pie. I wish I'd made a pie.

Some people can play music, and how jealous does that make me? So jealous. If you can play music, please come to my front porch and play it. Especially if you can play the following instruments: banjo, mandolin, ukulele, fiddle, washboard, spoons, saw, weathered voice. I have bourbon and maybe or maybe not moonshine.

For having nothing to say, I just said it.

Hooked Gummy Worms

My brother and I are talking about GLEE. We're pretending it's not the gayest thing we've ever talked about. And seriously, we've discussed some very gay things. Because we're both gay. In the interest of sibling competitiveness, let it be known I was gay first, and I started watching, and hating, GLEE first.

Sometimes, when I mean to type "fair enough", I accidentally type "far enough", and people think they should quit talking about whatever it is they're talking about. They're right. They should quit talking.

I had so much bourbon on Sunday. I had so much bourbon, it snowed. Yes, my drinking made it snow. I went outside, drunk, and looked into the park. The light was just right. I felt clear and pinched like you do when you're sick. I had a moment. And then I realized how much I talked to my drinking friend and how much of that talk I couldn't even remember. I've spent the better part of three days wondering what I said to another drunk person. It can't have been that important.

I feel like all I talk about is writing and cats. I don't even have a cat. There are at least four cats, though, maybe more, running stray on our block. It's getting to be that time of year where they spend all day on top of my car. There's one new stray who comes to the kitchen door and screams whenever I cook. He seriously wants this chickpea curry.

I guess I'm going to read all the Hemingway books I can find. All right in a row. If I ask you to go fishing, say no. I won't really want to go fishing. Like most things I do, it'll be an affectation. If I start wearing a fishing vest, make sure I follow through by having something edible in every single pocket of that fishing vest. As a joke, make sure to ask me how the fish are biting.

Smelling My Fingers

I often wake up to the sound of a bell. Something about breaking the barrier of sleep, I guess. It's never an actual bell, only perceived. Still, I almost always check the front door, just in case.

I'm reading Hemingway's A MOVEABLE FEAST. A lot of my tendencies as a writer probably come from my love of Hemingway's work. I recognize that. I own it. I abandon it when necessary. A MOVEABLE FEAST isn't what I expected at all. People sometimes talk about the masculinity of Hemingway's work like it's a bad thing. I see that masculinity as honesty. (I don't mean truthfulness, as I don't think A MOVEABLE FEAST is a completely truthful account of Hemingway's early adult years.) Maybe it's because of the culture of internet writing, but a lot of the work I'm reading online values brutal honesty. These writers aren't shying away from sharing some truly nasty things about humanity, some things they could only know from experience. I don't know. Maybe I'm comparing apples to the petrified orange slices in a dish of potpourri. I don't have an MFA. Excuse my ignorance.

I don't cry all that often. Sometimes when watching movies, I cry. Last night I got accepted to a literary magazine I respect and adore so much. They even tweeted nice things about my story. I was excited all night. It was almost like being high. When I went to bed, I cried into my pillow. I mean, Jesus. Sometimes things turn out to be really important. I've had eleven stories accepted for publication by different literary magazines. Eight of those stories have already been published. This latest acceptance makes it feel real, like those other stories weren't flukes, like maybe I'm really good at this. The story will be up in July. I'll keep you posted, of course.

My fingers smell like curry. I cooked Indian food last night. I have not showered today. I will, I promise.

I really think I want ice cream tonight. I almost said I deserved ice cream. I wonder if Hemingway ever thought he deserved ice cream. And by ice cream, I mean sex, sex, sex.

I have a story on SmokeLong Weekly. People have been curious. It's mostly fiction. I did come out to my parents when I was a teenager. That experience resembles the story but doesn't mirror it. The response from people I know has been a sort of pity. Well, no thank you. That adversity has proved invaluable.

Sometimes, the cat upstairs sounds like something bigger. Like when my neighbors leave, maybe the cat becomes something else. It sounds like there's a person up there. I know that's silly. I'm so silly. That cat, walking on its hind legs like a person, is so silly, too. It goes up and down the stairs, which are right above my head, and I swear it's wearing heels.

The Wrong Midwest

There's this argument (sort of) on HTMLGIANT about a group of young literary assholes being young, literary, and assholes. Except, duh, they're young. Some people are giving them a hard time. I understand the compulsion, but it's kind of tacky to pick on people for being young and impressionable. I don't know. I just try to stay out of it.

I'm writing a novella. Ice cream is one of the main characters. Kind of like how NYC was one of the main characters on SEX AND THE CITY. It was the character the girls talked about fondly but never invited to brunch.

I got a nice rejection this week. Not frameable or anything, but very supportive and sweet. The editor told me not to be discouraged and to keep submitting my work to literary magazines. It's like my mother wrote that rejection. Maybe my mother is secretly an editor.

I also got the best acceptance I've ever gotten. Not only because it's from an amazing magazine, but because this is how the acceptance was worded, "Very odd story here, but we're big fans." Ha!

I'm trying to talk to writers I admire. It's working. They're talking back to me. That's all I really want. To talk to other writers. I don't want to sleep with them or anything. OK, some of them maybe.

There's a new chapter in the blender saga. My mother sent us a new blender. It's sporty and red and actually came with an instruction manual. I immediately blended the only things I had to blend: frozen blackberries, milk, and a little sugar. I can confirm that the resulting mix was frothy and delicious but full of seeds. The last swallow, especially, was thick with little black seeds. Oh my God. I know how that sounds. Like zombie sperm or something. Anyway, this blender's the real deal.

I wish I could be in Chicago tonight. There's this reading that's going to be INSANE. If you're in Chicago tonight, go to The Underbar for Invasion::Response. Go because I cannot. Tell me all about it later, but don't be smug.

I might go to a writing group on Tuesday. I want to see what it's like. One of my friends runs it. I might go in disguise and sit at a different table and just listen. I've tested the waters in more embarrassing ways, believe me. Unfortunately, my only disguise is "lesbian". Maybe I can push it and go for "lesbian pirate".

Someone from the United Kingdom found my blog by Googling, "You never know who's listening." Eek. Mysterious.

High Praise

I had two stories go up over the weekend. One on amphibi.us and one on decomP magazinE. They are depressing stories. People seem to like them. People I don't know and people I do know.

Other things that happened over the weekend: drunkenness, sexiness, sadness. In that order.

A family member revealed something to me about her future. She is ill and her life will never be the same. Everything I do seems so small.

Today, I saw a man released from prison with time served. He posed for a cell phone picture. I want to know what he was thinking. I almost said, "How do you feel about posing for a cell phone picture?" But a bus drove by. The man watched the bus go. It was a big moment for him, I think. (I shouldn't guess at what he was thinking. Other people know him better.)

I'm obsessed with ginger beards right now. There are some men who don't have red hair, but when their beards grow out, their face is on fire. This one poet has a ginger beard. He's too skinny, and he tweets too much, but I don't care. He's a total fox.

I never participated in a circle jerk in high school, but it seems appropriate that the circle jerk I participate in now (the online literary community) has replaced jizzing on a cracker with jizzing on a book the size of a cracker. I'm talking about xTx's new book NORMALLY SPECIAL. It's a wonderful book. It deserves all the jizz people are piling on it. I had to read each story out loud, which is a good thing. They were like devastating fortune cookies that way. The book is now in its second printing. You have been given another chance.

I'm surprised when people my age refuse to eat certain foods.

Itemized

First things first. I had a story published on Monkeybicycle. It's about ghosts and glitter and women and men. It's extremely short. That means you have no excuse.

Second things second (but really this should be first). I got the best gift this week. It was not a new car. It was a story from a writer I love. This writer sent the story to me, to my email. I paced the house for an hour, seriously. You (you know who you are) made my week.

Third things third. It snowed. Yes, it's winter, it snowed. I drove in the snow this morning, and my car got stuck on a hill. Guys, it was so embarrassing. My car is stupid and messy. I agreed to give a friend a ride when his car wouldn't start. I have a chicken foot and an alligator foot hanging from my rear-view mirror. My friend didn't say anything about them, but I'm certain they didn't escape his notice. In the spare room at home, I have a cabinet full of things even weirder than that.

Fourth things fourth (go forth, go forth). I had a story accepted this week by a Canadian lit mag. I will tell you all about it when it hits in April. It's a special story. It's inspired by a friend. Something terrible happened to her. She's stronger than anyone I know. She didn't run away. She is Kentucky to me. When I think about her, I think about how she doesn't give up. I talked to her on the phone last night, and there she was, not giving up.

No more numbers. I was asked to collaborate with a local performance artist (and friend). I'm going to be honest, I don't usually "get" performance art. This is my fault, probably. I was asked to provide a sort of script for this artist's performance. I did. Apparently, it went well. I didn't go to the performance. That probably makes me an awful person. I was nervous. And it snowed. And I was busy crocheting breasts. Yes, breasts, not beasts. Usually I crochet beasts, but this guy on the internet wanted breasts (HA HA HA), so breasts it was.

I have plans this weekend. They involve: eating dinner with someone I only ever met once at a party, eating lunch with a lady I last saw in 2003 on a camping trip, and finishing a story about something that happened to someone else. I also hope to see each and every one of you, somehow, someway. No way! Yes way.

Almighty Sound

Something I didn't say about being drunk with Josh's family is that we talked theology. I don't usually talk about God or eternity or anything like that. I don't need to. I know what I believe, and that's about all I need to know. Some people believe in certain things, and if they believe in those things, they never have to die. I found out Josh's family believes in some of those things. Sometimes, I wish I could believe in some of those things too.

I went to a barbecue place for lunch today. I was with some ladies. They are pretty amazing ladies. Two teenagers came into the restaurant wearing spandex body suits. They got their barbecue to go. One of them was wearing a red body suit and the other was wearing a blue body suit. I think they were nude under their body suits. They covered their junk with cupped hands. One of them was really skinny. The type of skinny where the spine resembles the notches on the back of a dragon. I was hoping for some sort of performance, but I didn't get one. They got their barbecue and left, just like everyone else.

One of my idols (yes, she is that amazing) turns out to be super approachable and awesome. She's a writer. She wrote one of my favorite stories. If you buy your books at B & N, you won't know her, but one day you will, I promise. She'll be the literary goddess you envy. Even if you don't really read, you'll know who she is. You'll say, "God, her words could make dead birds fly."

I wrote a bloody finish to a story today. Something gets bisected, that's all I can say. It's not dicks, if that's what you're thinking. For dicks, see below.

I have to crochet a bunch of dicks tonight/tomorrow. Yes, I do. You may not know this, but my crocheted dicks were featured in Playgirl magazine a couple of summers ago. How about that?

Like all the people around you, I've been listening to FLORENCE AND THE MACHINE.

A former classmate and I went for milkshakes last night, but the milkshake place was "out of" milkshakes. I think they just didn't want to make them for us. I had a cheeseburger instead. I don't even like cheeseburgers, but now I think I might.

Josh is listening to some pretty awful music. I want to slap his computer. I imagine the music would skip a beat even though it's playing over the internet. A laptop is not a jukebox. Oh, wait--I like this song. Yes, keep playing this song, whatever it is.

Question and Answer

I was interviewed today. People ask me questions all the time, but I never actually think about the answers. Today, I thought about the answers. I'll let you know when and where, of course.

I live in a duplex. The top floor is one unit, the bottom floor is another unit. Make the jokes you want to make, but Josh and I are the bottoms in this scenario. The problem is, our landlords want to move into one of the units. As of Tuesday, they didn't know which unit. Long story short, our neighbors have volunteered to move out. I love our neighbors. I will miss them. Their unit looks like something from a magazine. Our unit looks like something from a movie about downtrodden youth. Our neighbors have a cat the size of a small tiger. I will miss that cat, too.

One of my new friends went to lunch with me yesterday. It was the first time he'd eaten Indian food. He pretended to like it. Maybe he really liked it. I tend to view my new friends with a paranoid dose of skepticism. Honestly, I can't believe anything they say. At the same time, I want to believe everything they say. I think this is only natural.

Sometimes, I actively court friends. This is one of those times. My new friend plays the fiddle. When he grows his facial hair out, it's red. I'm trying to get him to play the fiddle on my front porch. You will have to believe me when I say, I have the perfect front porch for fiddle playing.

I submitted a story and had it rejected all in one day. It was like when someone answers a question before you finish asking it. The answer was no.

You deserve an update about that yellow snow. The snow has melted, but the yellow remains. It has dimension. It looks like scrambled eggs. I'm kind of afraid to go near it.

I used to have a jar of moonshine. I don't know where it came from. Maybe it appeared on my front porch in a tiny basket. Maybe the basket was tied around a dog's neck. Maybe the dog left once I untied the basket. Maybe.

One of my friends tried to sip from the jar of moonshine. She was able to swallow her vomit before it became a problem. I was only able to drink the moonshine in shots. Some moonshine is flavored for the benefit of the drinker. My moonshine was not. I've never been so drunk. If you want me to do something I wouldn't normally do, give me moonshine. I will be yours.

Is this the year I'll finally look good in shorts?

Kinfolk

First, I have a story at DOGZPLOT. It's a tiny story. DOGZPLOT does a magnificent trade in tiny stories. I feel very honored to have this story published. In it, I get to be very gay, very nostalgic, and very brief all at once.

There's a place in my hometown called Ghost Bridge. I've been there. When you're in high school, you go there. When you're home for break in college, you go there. There's other places like this in my hometown. When you live in the country, every little thing is haunted. There's a small cemetery in my stepmother's backyard. It's strange to sit on lawn furniture and wonder about the bodies just beneath you while your father barbecues on the patio.

My mother lives on the upper floor of an old house. It's haunted too. Once, when I was in town visiting, I was in bed, and something started pulling the sheets. How about that? I pulled them back and went to sleep. I haven't had a problem since. I may have heard voices. Voices don't bother me. I like to listen.

Josh took some pictures of me last night. I look like an even mix of my mother and my father. I'm their first child together. My brother is turning out to look more like my father. There are no judgments attached to these observations. In the end, we just look like ourselves.

I'm writing another ghost story.

Valentine's Day is something you may or may not want to hear about. Josh and I treat Valentine's Day like the rest of our week but all rolled into one day. We eat more than we should. We don't get each other anything. I think Josh got me a cookie one year. We did go to a wedding this Valentine's Day. It was a very short wedding. I'm so happy for these people, you have no idea.

It sometimes occurs to me that I have a stepsister. We are not competing for the same prince. If we were, this would be a fairy tale. We went to high school together. She has babies and a husband. I have a "husband" and one of those tiny plastic babies you find in king cakes at Mardi Gras. It's sitting on a bookshelf. It will not grow up to be a doctor, which is a shame but not a surprise. My stepsister and I are both housewives at the moment. I wonder if she can cook? I can cook, in case you didn't know.

The things that matter to me could probably fit into a large tote bag. I am, of course, counting the things that cannot move of their own accord.

It seems like it might rain.

Lots of Magical Thinking

All of the sudden, I smell like cigarettes. How is that possible? I've not been smoking. I haven't smoked since this dream I had last night. Don't say it's impossible. You've had sex in dreams, at least, and woken up spent. I know, it's not really the same. It's EXACTLY the same.

Egypt is having a moment. Let's have a moment for Egypt. Let's not be cynical, let's be hopeful.

I have a weekend full of eating ahead of me. Tonight, barbecue. I will take the extra pickles. I will have equal amounts of pork and pickle on my buns. That was a joke. Feel free to throw tomatoes at me. I will eat them like apples. If you throw a pie, aim for my mouth. I'm partial to any fruit pie, any cream pie, and any seasonally too sweet pie (pecan, chess, derby).

I'm liking my haircut. I think you'll like it too, especially if you're fond of Julia Roberts as Tinkerbell from HOOK.

My father and my stepmother are in town. I hate to inform you that my stepmother is not evil. She's very nice. She wants to go shopping. Where do people go shopping in this town? We just had coffee/tea and they wanted to know what they should do next. I have no idea. We do not do the same things. I'm going to send them to Crate & Barrel. People like that sort of thing, right? Maybe they will buy me a coffee table. I've been using a storage tub.

One of my besties is doing some artwork for a story I wrote. It will be up on a website I'm so fond of. I'll let you know which website it is on March 7th. You'll have no idea what I'm talking about. They only publish the best, which makes me wonder how I ever got selected. Editors work in mysterious ways. I like to imagine they wear robes and use complex magic to shape their respective literary magazines into something special. It's the only way I can wrap my head around their apparent super powers.

Read a book this weekend.

I'm getting to the point where my arms are lean and muscular. My legs are on their way. They are always late to the party. My ass will arrive in its own sweet time. By summer, I might be able to take my shirt off when I mow the lawn. Might. I will drink a beer and say, "Ahhh."

Never Too Much, Always Enough

I received an excellent rejection yesterday. I know you want to hear all about it. There's this magazine I love (I only submit to magazines I love, because DUH) and they liked my piece but felt it lacked sufficient conflict. I get that. They want me to send more work, though. It was a very flattering rejection. I blushed all over. My hands were red like I'd been punching people all day.

My cell phone doesn't have a functioning camera. I don't have cable. I get water from a well. OK, not that last one, but can you imagine? Nothing I own is smart. My books are only smart if I read them. I have a bunch of crocheted artifacts, but they only move when I'm not looking.

I scrubbed a toilet today. There should be a robot for that. It should be smart enough to recycle the scraps of toilet paper that cling to the bowl. Don't ask me how this would work. Do I look like an engineer? The answer is no. I look like someone who buys their hipster clothes on clearance at Target. The flannel shirt I'm wearing was totally 70% off. RED TAG, BABY!

I made a new friend. Hooray! He's wildly inappropriate. I need more wildly inappropriate people in my life. My crazy tempers best with other crazy. This guy flattered me with compliments. He knows how this works. Food is the next step. I'm obsessed with lunches. Also, the phrase, "Let's do lunch." Sure, why not? How could you ever turn down lunch with me? If you were sane, you could not. Let's do lunch.

I just flexed my forearm and said, "I look like Popeye." Josh said, "No, you don't." Truer words, etc.

Speaking of Josh, he gave me an excellent haircut last night. Well, he says it's excellent. I've not tested it in the field. We'll see how many heads I turn when I finally leave the house. With the recent shaving accident, I'm afraid a pride of lesbians will confuse me for one of their own. My hair's all short and choppy, my face is smoother than a belt buckle, and my fashion sense is squarely between Rachel Maddow and anyone in line for a Sufjan Stevens concert. My lips also have a certain soft and full quality, despite their winter chappiness. When I drink, I look like one of those algae eater fish at the bottom of an aquarium--all lips, ass, and slobbery glass. Unlike algae eater fish, I do not get territorial with age.

I'm thinking this house needs a cactus. I'll crochet one. It'll look like a green and prickly penis, just like a real cactus.

I read this story today about a girl who covered a bleeding ghost in slices of white bread. It made me want to work on some of my weird fiction. I have this story about a harpy you wouldn't believe (and God, I hope you don't; it's fiction, after all).

Tell me the last time you felt like a fool. I need details, people, embarrassing details. I walked around all day with a dry flake of skin on my nose. That's not even the last time I felt like a fool. That's just something stupid that happened today. Give me the real deal.

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.