tv and friendship.

Oh my god, somebody, put a bullet in my brain. I am a dying star. Waterford, Michigan is killing me.

There are ways to tell whether or not you’re happy. Like if you wake up well after noon every day, and yet you want to go to bed at 8 pm, you might be unhappy. If you start lusting for the coffee you’re going to get to drink tomorrow immediately after your last cup of coffee today, it could be your life has little meaning.

What are the effects of cable television? Here’s some tweets I’ve been writing lately about cable television:

  • “My 600 lb Life” is the saddest show I’ve ever seen. I can’t believe she’s married and I’m not.
  • Quick and the Dead on TV. Sharon Stone is very pretty!
  • Seriously, though. The Quick and the Dead is a terrible, terrible film.
  • fat shredder. big arm blast. explosive chest. ripped abs.
  • I wish I’d taken a diabetes medication called Actos that gave me bladder cancer, cuz then I’d be entitled to a settlement, maybe.
  • wish I’d received an infuse bone graft on my spinal chord that gave me cancer, cuz then I’d be entitled to a settlement, maybe.
  • oh man. if only I’d experienced liver failure as a result of taking acetaminophen… cash settlement.
  • The Golden Child is a totally good movie.
  • every day is a 5 hour energy day if you made all the wrong choices.
  • I wanna fuck the guy in the tv ad trying to sell me the big schticky and the little schticky cuz ppl tend to shut up when they’re fucking.

There’s more where that came from, guys.

I haven’t been able to write anything good lately. I try, but it’s not good. I was thinking I might want to write a 5 paragraph essay on the importance of friendship, with a funnel paragraph introduction. The introduction would go something like this:

In today's society, there are people all over the world. People can choose to be friends, enemies, or some other thing in between, like indifferent to or not know each other. Friends are good to have because you can talk about your feelings, help each other with problems and do fun things together that you both enjoy doing. Therefore, it's important to have friends in order to be happy and fulfilled as a person in today's society in the world.

Then from there I’d have three paragraphs that had three different reasons why friends were good, and then a conclusion that said the same thing as the introduction in a different way and order.

I’m wondering now if maybe I hit my head on something earlier, and the blow was so severe that I can’t remember the injury. How would I know if that happened? I wouldn’t ever know because I wouldn’t be able to remember it. I haven’t slept in awhile so this might be a sleep thing, also. I don’t know, I’m not a doctor.


AWP, linkss and how to be good.

It’s all very hard to talk about. I spend most of my time exploring the mind/body connection, which is valid and beautiful I’m sure, but it’s not the stuff of blog posts. “My writing” is in a nebulous and hard to define place. I wouldn’t say that I’m not writing. But I’m not. Not really.

Michigan is a waiting room filled with strangers who I don’t really talk to, but I like them a lot! First, there are my students. They are so precious and dim, what else is there to say. Little half-awake sleepyheads, they are, and it’s my job to come around the room banging pots and pans.

Beyond that, I spend a lot of time at a yoga studio in Clarkston. Imagine a very hot room filled with pretty women, and bam, you’re right there with me. When you’re resting in savasana, the instructor comes around and rubs your temples or your feet or your shoulders. Let’s say hypothetically that it’s been awhile since you’ve known such a touch. Hypothetically, you might find that very thrilling.

I want to be perfect. I want to be all of the best things, so that means not just great at writing Facebook status updates and stories and stuff. I also want to be nice. Do you remember The Fall, by Albert Camus? There’s this part where the narrator talks about the pure pleasure found in doing kind acts for other people, and he describes in detail the contrivances he went through to seek out opportunities to do so. I just wish I could remember what he did to create helping situations. What, am I supposed to hold doors open for people and stuff? Trite!

Camus makes it clear that seeking out good deeds in this way is a selfish act. Yeah, yeah, we’re all selfish, whatever. Never mind the motives; I want to be good and do good. So when I go to these places and stand in rooms with a bunch of strangers and don’t talk to them, I try to radiate an aura of good. I want people near me to think, “Look at that nice, humble girl.” Maybe when they get home from yoga they will say to their husband, “I don’t know what it was about her. She was just so nice.

Enough of that! I’ve done a little housekeeping in the links section of this page. It had been a couple of years since I combed through it or examined anything too thoroughly. Basically I just wanted to link writers and other friends, people who I’ve worked with personally or who I admire from afar on the web or neither or both, I don’t know. If you’ve read this far and you’d like to be linked, I’m sure it would be my pleasure; just say so. If I forgot you it was probably an oversight. Don’t think you’re going to experience a surge in popularity or something; it is a purely ceremonial gesture.

Finally, I’ll be going to AWP in a couple of weeks. Will you? By going, I mean that I’ll be waiting outside the building like a hobo all week because I didn’t bother to buy a ticket for the main event and now it’s sold out. (I totally don’t care.) I’m scheduled to do two readings. The first is called Convocation in Chicago on Thursday night with the good people at PANK, Mud Luscious and Annalemma. Look at my name on the flyer in such good company! So many of the readers are my real life heroes. I am incredibly frightened and excited to meet them. The other reading I’m doing is for Burnt Bridges Press at 7:30 on Friday at Billy Goat Tavern or something like that. That link takes you to the whole schedule. And finally, I should mention that Unstuck has a reading on Thursday night as well, and I am a proud slush pile reader for this illustrious magazine and Matt Williamson, my friend and Unstuck’s grand master appreciates when I network.



a routine take on a classic theme.

For a second there I thought the well had dried and I wasn’t a writer anymore. I acquired some new interests around the new year, things like vegetables, water picking (look it up) and skin regimes that include but are not limited to slathering food all over my face. It’s a good life here with my mother in Michigan while I teach community college and save up money for something cooler in spring. (As long as good no longer has any real meaning, it is a good life.)

This lady named Kelly Howell who makes subliminal audio programming that puts me into a trance-like state before bed every night told me that any discomfort I was feeling in the month of January was likely the result of increased solar flare activity. The solar flares are expanding our consciousness, heating up our bodies and causing unspecified irritability and discomfort.

I got a cold the other day, which infuriated me because I thought people who stopped eating dairy products as of December 26 of 2011 would never get colds. The cold sucked all the moisture out of my face under the nose and the top lip and it makes me look and feel like a grown-up who loves Kool-aid.

Next, A small bird came in the night and scratched my right eyeball. It swelled and it hurt. The bird would have scratched my left eyeball too, but then my mother’s cats ripped the bird apart and all three took equal parts in the eating.

That’s probably not even how it happened.

Worst of all, I’m this 29-year-old woman who doesn’t have any wisdom teeth. I don’t think. I might have one on the top right row. How do you know if you have them? I’m obsessed with whether or not I have them. The point is, some prehistoric, sharp pointy bone is poking through on the bottom right side of my gums and it hurts. This seems to happen every few months and then every time it turns out I was mistaken. It’s sort of like when I was nearly 15 years old and waiting around to get my first period under some mistaken delusion that it was going to be awesome. Do I think I’m going to know more when the tooth finally breaks through? What’s the point of even talking about it.

So yeah. Solar flares.

About the writing: Meh. There are millions of projects I can and should be working on about now. There’s the novel I started at MacDowell. It’s like a dead body I walled up in the basement, but I have all these feigned regrets, all “Oh, why did I kill that man in the heat of passion!” Then he starts tapping on the brick, whimpering, “I’m not dead,” and my friends on facebook and twitter are all, “We want to meet your dead friend,” and I know that I should feel bad that I don’t want to save him, but I don’t know. I don’t want to save him.

I got some movie review writing gigs and a third feature for the Indy in the works. Got a couple of stories that need nothing more than a quick spit shine and day after day I can’t be bothered. I’m a writer with more work than ambition to face it. Basically, I’m the biggest asshole ever.

Solar flares?

No, but seriously. Get it together, Molly.


Molly Laich Monthly Catch-Up Family Newsletter

Weirdest thing. My throat chakra is all sorts of fucked up and I’m having a hard time communicating.

Been downstairs in the lab brewing up some new life plans. I think about what a weirdo I am all the time and try often to come up with stunts to seem cool and casual and less weird. There are values to uphold of course. Being kind and good and thoughtful can sometimes make you boring or seem less smart, but it’s more important to be kind than to be right. Some of us can all agree on that.

Do you remember our second cousin? We’ll call her Meryl. Meryl’s been old her entire life but I think these days she’s around sixty. She wears glasses, shirts buttoned to the neck and polyester suits. It can’t be comfortable. Before dinner she sways back and forth and claws her nails into her knees. When I was younger she had two pet guinea pigs named Coco and something else. She brought them to all the family gatherings, or else she showed everyone pictures. (Imagine the conversation those inspired. None.)

She held them to her chest and it was very clear she loved the guinea pigs. In my memory I wanted to hold them but Meryl would have a panic attack if anyone else held them because she was afraid they would die. Denying an 8 year old a chance to hold a furry animal—this was my first taste of seeing a crazy person get away with whatever crazy shit they wanted.

Her guinea pigs ended up dying and Meryl was so devastated she got out of coming to family events for years. “Why doesn’t Meryl get new guinea pigs?” Every holiday I begged them to give me a real answer, and my Grandma would pat me on the knee and say “Shhh,” as she nodded the knowing family look that said, “Cousin Meryl is crazy, remember? Let it go.”

Why doesn’t Meryl just get more guinea pigs? What the fuck.

The point of this thing got away from me. I was trying to say that I hope to enact a new life-plan that emphasizes getting away with behaving however I want while still remaining vital, having relationships and making art. It’s not going to be easy. People still expect me to look them in the eye and pretend to care about dumb things…

Who else can we think of that is way cool and acts however they want? Marlon Brando? Roger Ebert? Bjork?

This could turn into a Charlie Sheen thing if we’re not careful.

This newsletter sucks. Go back to work.




Hi, I’m a wreck.

It seems like we’re being dramatic, and we are. Writers, I mean. Everything’s a matter of life and death with us weirdos. When we’re writing, we feel bad. When we’re not writing, we feel worse, and then there are these vague periods in between where life just has a vague film of “ugh” on it. Maybe I don’t speak for all of us, but personally, I can’t think of a writer who I both respect and is “happy” in any conventional sense.


a quote I was willing to make fun of as little as two weeks ago.

I am particularly torn apart by horses, even more than usual, because I haven’t been writing. Correction: I write 27 hours a day for my job (at the Missoula Independent – I don’t want to hyperlink for whatever reason) and I come home weary and exhausted. On the one hand my silly little 300 word articles are read by lots of people I know in real life and it can be super rewarding. But then the locals get mad at me when I fuck up their event listing and I have to go cry in the bathroom. Molly hates having people being mad at her more than just about anything.

I’m trying to think of what else I’ve been doing besides working, worrying about not writing, tweeting and feeling sorry for myself. Let’s see.

I broke up with my boyfriend, and it was terrible, and exhausting, and heartbreaking, and I feel like a monster! I want to lock myself up in the attic. I’m 29 and every relationship I’ve been in has ended, either because I broke up with them, did something monstrous, or both. This leads me to believe that I am incapable of maintaining a relationship, which is not so much a belief as a cold, hard fact, empirically supported by the data. Anyway, I hate myself. And I know I brought it up and everything but I don’t want to talk about it. I’ve been told that one day he and I will be okay.

Lastly, I’ve been gorging myself on A&E’s Intervention, Obsessed, and Hoarders. Addicts I get, that’s easy, of course you can’t stop drinking. That’s why it’s called drinking, but the hoarding and the OCD stuff feels way voyeuristic. I’m like the anti-hoarder. I’m liable to throw away my toothbrush for no reason and then be all, “oh shit, I needed that.” I am like certain hoarders in the sense that I’m kind of a slob. To paraphrase my friend Alice, who is the same as me: “I seriously just like, don’t see dirt.” I watched six episodes of Hoarders back to back hoping it would somehow pull me out of my existential torpor and convince me to do my laundry, but instead I just decided it could wait, since I don’t shit in a bag and then throw the bag in the corner. God, a lot of those Hoarders are total assholes, especially the old women. At least a drug addict has the good sense to hate themselves. The hoarders are all “this isn’t garbage, it’s somebody else’s fault you found a flattened cat behind the refrigerator, blah blah blah.” If one of those old women were my mother I would stab her. Seriously bitch, your doll collection is tearing this family apart.

So there, I wrote something. It’s not my novel but it’s a start. Celebrate the small victories.



Excuse me, weather. I was told melting sun.

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.



April 15th.

Dear Diary,

Haven’t written you in weeks. Can’t sleep. Afraid of the sun.

Sure I’m probably busy with the end of the semester and editing my thesis and teaching my class, but not really. I’m afraid to write because the stakes are high and I’m paralyzed. Graduating from college blows. I hated it when I was an undergrad and I hate it as an MFA candidate. I’m going to miss my friends and I don’t know how I’ll make a living or where I’ll live. These are both problems and opportunities. I try to be brave; I think it’s a pivotal but overlooked virtue, and it’s not that I fear change. Often its exhilarating, but things can get worse and remember advice like, “don’t rock the boat” and “if it’s not broke, don’t fix it?” In Montana, boat rocks you!

Not to mention the writing. I want it to be good, but the truth is that takes work; it means rewriting pages that I’ve fallen in love with again and again, and spending a lot of time with the material, and have you met my latest characters? They are not fun to be around. Sometimes I’ll look at what I’ve written and all the things that I’ve put us through (the character and me) and I’m creeped out by the person who wrote this shit, and I can’t believe I’ve made this terrible life choice of being a writer, and then I remember that it’s not a choice, and it never was, and it’s back to the grindstone.

I cross a footbridge over the river on my morning commute to campus. It’s not uncommon to see a person stop walking, drop their bags and stare out over the railing. In the winter the river looks different every time. You might see big chunks of ice floating and the next day they’re gone. The water gets deep in the spring. Even deep water is interesting to look at. Or there’s the sky, or the mountains. Pretty with or without snow, and no one is embarrassed about marveling at beauty, and no one passing them wonders what they’re looking at or why.

April 15th feels important, eh? Deadlines for everything. Dead ends. Embrace. It will all be over soon.


how I spent my writer’s vacation.

Look how cute. Sorry my 95 Saturn isn't a riding animal.

I live in Montana; it’s fucking stupid beautiful. “The last best place,” important writers have said. You can rent a cabin in the woods at Lolo Hot Springs with a weird bunk bed and an electrical outlet for 35 dollars a night. So I cancelled my Wednesday morning class and I fucking drove myself out here and here I am.

“I think I’m in the wrong place,” I told the woman behind the counter at the hot springs. “I have a reservation for a cabin.”

“You’re not,” she said. She was around 40 and pretty. “Cabin 12.” She showed me a map of the layout of the cabins. Remember No Country For Old Men? It was just like that. (Also Psycho: twelve rooms, twelve vacancies…)

pretty deep into that bottle by the time I got around to writing this blog post, not gonna lie to ya.

“How many?” she said.
“Just me.”
“Oh. Just getting away for awhile?” she said, consolingly.
I tried to decide in the moment if telling her I was a writer would somehow make it less weird, and decided it wouldn’t.
“Yes,” I said.

She gave me a ticket for the hot springs behind her, like at a carnival. It said “admit one.” ‘Are you kidding?’ I almost said, but didn’t. She explained that the natural pool was to the left, and the other one, you know, with concrete and lawn chairs, was to the right. She apologized for the chemicals in the pool on the right, which I found touching. Another thing I almost said: ‘Could I have cabin 13 instead? You see, I’m a writer and I plan on scaring the shit out of myself tonight with dark fantasy.’

Look how tiny. Look at the weird bunk bed.

Whatever, there’s already a couple staying in cabin 13, but man, you should see cabin 12. And you will, for I took pictures. I hate bunk beds. Sleep on the top and you’re suspended in space, the dangers of which are obvious, but the bottom bunk feels like the beginnings of a pressure chamber. I’ve been on a kick recently and everything reminds me of Edgar Allan Poe: pits, pendulums, and people encased in walls. The room has a closet. Tentatively, I opened it, and found nothing inside. No dead bodies, no black cats, nothing. I have no one to blame but myself. After all, they didn’t know I came here to write.

misguided optimism.

The conditions are too perfect. I mean, there’s a fucking babbling brook just outside my window; I can hear it still. I’m writing this at 10pm. I got here around 6. Here’s what I’ve done so far:

  • I made house. It took about 9 seconds.
  • I went outside to check out the river but the weather is pretty shitty. Driiizzle.
  • I took some pictures of my room and myself. The pictures feature a room full of promise and a girl dreading her future.
  • There could be no more delaying. I started to write.
  • More precisely, I read everything of the story that had come before. Tonight I am focused on revision of this terrible, bleak tale stuffed with pathos. Incest, suicide, betrayal, you know, a greatest hits kind of thing.
  • I finally started writing. I’d say of the four hours I’ve been here I’ve eked out about an hour and a half of solid writing. Unless you count this blog post, which I don’t.
  • The story’s still not done and it makes me sick to think about it. The original draft was about 14 pages. Workshop made helpful suggestions like “revamp this entire character” and “add a hundred more scenes” and “make fundamental changes to the stories overall arch and structure.” Did I mention my friends are assholes?
  • The story is now 24 pages and I’m only just now approaching the third act. I grew weary. I decided to take a break
  • I decided to take a line break.
  • Whenever I start to feel a little uneasy about writing, I like to pick up the short story of an author I respect in order to really bring the feeling home. Without trying it always turns out to be just the right story to elucidate whatever it is that’s gone terribly wrong with my own piece.
  • I read Joy William’s story, “Substance.” I find often whenever I read one of her stories that I am so moved by the experience I want to get up and tell somebody all about it. This is almost never a good idea. It’s almost as bad as when someone starts telling you about something funny they saw in a television show. Actually it’s probably worse. What I admired about the story was the weight of it, and yet it’s told so swiftly. She reminded me how unswift my 24 pages are and still nowhere near the finish line. The story is on my kindle and it’s impossible to guess how long it actually is in “microsoft word,” you know, the unit I measure my life in.

It’s 10:30 now. I woke up at 11 this morning. There’s no Internet and I am so very alone. This is what I paid for. There’s nothing to do but go back to the writing. Anyway. God help me. I’ll be back to wrap this up later.

sober determination.


  • I finished a draft of the story before bed, which is to say, I ended it abruptly. 26 pages, suckers. It’s called “Get Well Soon.” And I hope you do.
  • I came to learn real values.
  • I never used my free hot springs pass. Maybe if I had someone with me, but electing to take a bath by myself with a bunch of strangers, I decided, takes more courage than I could muster.

literally, 500+ words on what I had for dinner.

Denny's lets you substitute withered green beans for french fries. and such small portions!

Firstly, I went to the gym, and let me tell you, it was way hard and boring. You were always in my thoughts. I couldn’t wait to get off the elliptical and write a blog post about how long and boring it was. The mind is always running; it wants to be somewhere else, and that is very unzen. I should have been thinking: woosh woosh woosh woosh, the sun is warm, the grass is green, let go, let god, let go, let god, be here now, be here now, always here somehow… but instead I thought of jokes to tell you, and it’s ironic or something because I can’t remember any of them now. Not a single one. I remember the thoughts but they are without punch line. Predictable observations about how all the people at the university gym are young, thin, and annoying. Fear of seeing one of my beautiful, thin students. The fear realized. Something about my terrible gym outfit and how I am always the fattest, worst dressed person at the gym, and the thing is, I’m not even that fat. My gym clothes really are that awful, though. How can a person ever justify buying cute gym clothes? Isn’t the whole point that you want to shrink out of them, pronto? A lot of those cunts seem like they’re already at their goal weight. Montana kind of sucks. In Michigan, I am quite thin.

Let me say something quickly about writing, since this blog is primarily supposed to be about writing: I am not interested in writing. I am interested in fitness and wolverines and that’s IT.

Speaking of not writing: you’ll never guess where I’m writing this. You give up. Denny’s. It’s called a chain restaurant, ever heard of it? Some people find eating dinner alone in public humiliating, but the way I see it, anybody who’s lame enough to go to Denny’s is a person whose opinion of me I care not about. (See the classic onion article: I’ll try anything with a detached air of superiority.)

Website, I don’t know what it is lately, but I feel giddy about our relationship. I feel like we’re falling in love all over again. I want to tell you everything about me. Website, did you know that on the subject of ordering food at restaurants, I am remarkably high maintenance? In my defense, I’m a vegetarian, and menus get everything wrong. A menu is a jumping off point to start negotiations. Tonight I ordered the mushroom and swiss burger, but with the veggie patty, and not with the regular bun, but rye bread, and the waitress was all, “did you know we have a wheat bun?” and I’ll admit she tripped me up but ultimately I said, “I don’t care that you have a wheat bun” (more or less) and mother fucking green beans instead of French fries! I know! I was excited too! That wasn’t even my idea. It says right on the menu that you can do that. I said to the waitress, “Is it true a person can substitute green beans for French fries?” It’s true, she said. What a world. She wasn’t as excited about it as me, but I don’t hold it against her.

Okay. This is getting a little retarded. After today I’m going on a diet from talking about my diet. I’m serious. Next time I’ll talk about something else.

P.S. It’s been 20 minutes and I’m still hungry. That means I’m doing very well, right?



the first day of the rest of your month.

Dear Diary,

The alarm went off at 8:30 or something. I read act IV of Hamlet on my kindle next to a crabby, sleepy bear. I think his stomach hurt; I don’t know. It snowed all yesterday and this morning and then got a little warmer. Slush. Everybody hates the weather. We (the great collective we) seem to remember things going differently last year, a less shitty February. We are not yet consoled by the arrival of March but maybe we’re getting there?

Got myself caught up on the Charlie Sheen thing. Subsequently adopted “I’m tired of pretending I’m not special” as life mantra.

Read an article Alice sent me about how to define a vague relationship or something like that.

Went to Shakespeare class, where once again I failed to have anything valid or interesting to contribute.

I ate a breakfast burrito from the campus cafeteria with the coeds. It was so good. I love breakfast burritos.

Wrote 639 new words for an old story. Concluded it wasn’t enough and I would never amount to anything.

Read an article on why young men suck at everything but getting laid and 6 reasons why humans should be terrified of crows.

Read Kate’s story and the first two chapters of Ted’s novel. I walked around campus holding up Ted’s manuscript in front of my face like some super nerd. Realized what I was doing halfway to the bus but elected not to stop myself.

By 5pm today I had already tweeted 13 times. What on earth about, you might be wondering.

Passed two bums on the footbridge smoking weed and having a blast like they owned the place. I gave one of them a dollar and the other 50 cents and they said without prompting, “it’s cool, man, we share everything.”

Went to the grocery store. Came out at exactly 5:15 across the street from the 5:15 bus stop. A different homeless guy stopped me and started prattling on about could I give him my address and his wife was over there and a broken carburetor, but I was anxious about missing the bus and I literally said to him, “Shut up. I’m going to miss the bus. Here’s a dollar.” Turned out there was no need to be so terse, but pardon me.

The bus was 5 minutes late, just like it always is, and I rode it home without incident. People chitchatted about being sick of the weather. Someone pointed out that it was only March 1st, after all, and the snow was not atypical. This person was not well received.

Came home with the intention of exercising but ate a sandwich instead.

I Read Missoula’s Missed Connections page on craigslist for about an hour and then wrote 180 words of a poem inspired by one of the ads titled, “you have an orange coat.” Decided I will make my students do something similar tomorrow, except not a poem because nobody likes poems. Also, these kids signed up for a fiction class.

Around 7pm I wanted to put on my pajamas and go to bed. I started feeling drained and useless and I wondered what I’d been doing all day. Felt that the beginning of the month was paramount and I wanted to ask something extraordinary of myself.

I mustered up the energy to write this blog post. Had the idea it would be a good goal to write a blog post every day for the month of March but thought better of making any promises. We’ll see how it goes. What do you care? You don’t care.

I switched to the present tense. Or did I?

You’re up to date and I’m writing in real time, which is lame and dumb. Sorreeee!