Sorry, In Hospital [REVISED]

I'm sorry I haven't post, I was living among the rich and famous, hospitalized, of course.

Why else would I be there?

It's harder than being accepted at Harvard.

Apparently, I'm not a surgical (wow, major typo there) candidate. Other than that, I learned nothing. They like to cut people up there. Chop, chop.

I did not fit into Beverly Hills. I walked in with my shirt that cost me five dollars (yes!), and my K-mart bought jeans. I was super cool.

(I wasn't planning on staying--I would have dressed better.)

So, I Slapped Him

"...Several hours later, out of nowhere, the Little Man slapped me in the stomach. So I slapped him across the face..."

--Tinseltown Tease, and her entry: "Such A Piece of Shit Night, On So Many Levels"

Climbing Ever Upward

"...That lowering my aim and sights a little works best for me, because when I do, an amazing thing happens. The flat featureless loop of my life is revealed to be something much more complex and interesting -- a spiral, climbing ever upward.

Let others sit atop their lofty towers and look down on the rest of the world. The truth is, I prefer the view from the street..."

--by Michael McClung, blog: In Second Person, and his entry: "Loops and Spirals and Ping Pong Balls"

I love this guy, who has encouraged my writing for years now, although he does not know this blog exists.

This is a little thank you back.

Fucking Around

A client recently (days before I quit) stared through into my eyes like my brain was privates and pussy and precious and asked me what I wanted out of life.

"My book to be required reading for postmodernism lit classes in universities across the country and a Nobel Prize in Literature," I replied staring daringly back.

"Really," he said, numb. "That's great."

I laughed crazy like a stripper should. "I'm just fucking around."

Rent

Weeks ago, Slick Trouble and I get in the car after returning from the first apartment complex, and I'm in a bitter but blasting humor type of mood.

"Nine sixty to nine seventy-five a month," I say, remarking about the rent. "You must think highly of my dancing abilities." I smile brightly for the camera. (He and I--or at least he should know--I'm a horrible dancer on stage. Out of four limbs, a singular arm is the only appendage which remains uninjured. Most people just assume I'm drunk.)

He turns his head around and stares out the driver's window, and doesn't say a word. A moment passes, and he politely talks around my remark, sidestepping it the way one would bypass a spill in one's lane. "See, that's too high. I'm only paying eight-eighty."

"You live there?" I remark, stirring in my seat. I was too startled to say that included what it would cost to have my medium sized Border Collie staying with me, which made up for some of the difference.

"Not there, across the street, but yeah, same complex." He fiddles with his phone. "Okay, lots more places to see..."

Is Love Really That Small...

"I hate the part where someone says they've never loved like this before, and they never will again. Is love really that small and exclusive?" -- Susie Bright's Journal, and her entry: "Kissing in a Tree"

Shame

"I confess it is my shame to be so fond, but it is not in my virtue to amend it." Othello, Shakespeare.