I'm woolly you guys.
Couldn't you just kick Molly's ass? What I wouldn't give for a finely coiffed New Waver singing me some sexy soul tunes! What's hotter, those shoes or the bolo tie? I DON'T KNOW. But then, probably we'd end up divorced with him living at his whoring, coked up brother's place.
But seriously. Young girls they do get woolly wearing that same old shaggy dress.
The heat is demoralizing. The time slipping away without any work to show for it is demoralizing. I got another rejection and THAT is demoralizing.
It's not all misery, here is an amazing and lovely piece of flash from E. Victoria Flynn at her memoir blog, Penny Jars, that was inspired by a tweet of mine: Sisyphus come rolling down the mountainside. We both had a tough patch there in our early twenties it seems. How long ago was that? And yet, I was here. It was monsoon. I was counting the days to escape.
Wasn't I just lamenting my awkward relationship with any of my own memoir-like writing? Penny Jars is a great example of doing it much more right, she tells a story worth reading. I have been told over and over again that mine are not interesting enough--or my telling of them is not interesting--or, what? Perhaps I just need more and better models.
I only have two submissions out. That doesn't seem like enough. I have been putting all of my hummingbird eggs into one (apparently) crummy basket. OK. That's the heat talking, but still. There is eau de defeat in the air, and it smells like Haboob B.O.
For two days in a row I have gotten mad enough to scream at other drivers. Luckily, I was the only one in the car. A mumbled curse is one thing, but screaming is what you don't ever want to do with someone in the passenger seat, because they give you this side-eyed look like your ears might begin to bleed at any moment from the brain tumor you must have. I'm the very definition of edgy.
Woolly. I just need a little goddamned tenderness. And more Otis.
I am going to try to get a little bit of Freshman Comp homework done before calling it a night.