I can’t seem to keep a lid on anything. I don’t mean metaphorically, not like I can’t keep secrets, I mean on things like toothpaste and pill bottles. It’s the screwing I take issue with. It takes so long, and for what? Screwing a cap is as dumb as making a bed.
I concede, spillage sometimes occurs. Since I got a perscription I have never not accidentally knocked over my bottle of ambien, sending all the tiny little pills into the big box I keep my shoes in, but it’s a good thing. When I forget to fill the script, I can always find one errant pill buried in the carpet somewhere.
Further, men keep telling me something really bad is going to happen to my car as a result of my lost gas cap, but oh really? Like what, smarty pants? Not only is there a little door, there’s a metal sheeth keeping the gas inside, like an eyelid. Put a cap on your eyelids, men. Also, who ever fills their car more than halfway? No one I know. I only know writers. Anyway, I’m sure I’m wrong. I’m sorry. I’ll try to change.
Feeling blue, what else is new. A poet. I know it. The end of school, you know. My future is uncertain. I teach my last class tomorrow and then I’m out of a job. In retaliation I’ve decided to make a medical emergency out of my premenstrual symptoms. Sweatpants. Beer. Maybe I’ll eat a whole pizza later. I don’t know; I’m not a psychic.
My contributor’s issue of HOW Journal came in the mail today. My story is called “No Hands.” It’s about a tall girl who moves from Reseda, California to Medicine Hat, Alberta for an Internet boyfriend who turns out to be prohibitively fat. She meets a man with no hands, gets into other adventures, and comes to learn real values. I always knew the story was good structurally but I never really liked it. I didn’t like my protagonist. I thought she was rude and ungrateful, but now I feel like I’ve been too hard on her. I’d like to cautiously say that it’s a good story, and you should consider buying the journal. Do you know what HOW Journal stands for? Helping Orphans Worldwide, that’s what. Honestly, I’m not sure why you hate orphans. An excerpt:
God did that make me angry. How dare he mention my height? As though I were the freak. There were other concerns. Men are sick people. They have weird fetishes. There was this one guy—you wouldn’t believe what happened. I should have known when he called before our date and instructed me on what to wear: heels, a skirt. I feel like a man in a dress. Women are small. That’s why rappers call them shortys. I am something else. But he was handsome and I agreed. He invited me to lie down on his bed. He asked me to shut my eyes, that he had a surprise for me. Then he pulled out a tangle of ropes and tried to tie me to the bed. I saw a red camera light blinking on the bookshelf across the room. His breath was excited and shallow. The clincher: a worn copy of Gulliver’s Travels on the nightstand. I never told Orca how tall I was, and this allowed me to trust him. I did not trust Dylan.
This blog post is the first real thing I’ve written since my thesis reading. I would try to write and it was like my fingers got tangled together and I quit for fear of tripping. I still feel that way but I’m making myself do it anyway. Future, why you so scary?
Thanks for reading, friends. I mean it. We’ll be in touch.