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Friday, July 24, 2009

F. Scott and Zelda would so be invited to my parties and so would her imaginary friends. I mean, what the hell, right?

Poor blogger husbands and boyfriends and friends and strangers that bloggers don't even know. You are the subject of many blogs and we love to write mostly about the stupid stuff you do or get you to pose for really goofy pictures, but we almost never write about the good stuff because it's often kind of sappy and we're afraid that someone will pull us off their Google Reader.

But, since I have a mere 8 followers and I'm sure they are all faithful, which is why I refer to them as faithful readers or sometimes "people" and occasionally floosiewhatsees, I don't really worry that a little warm fuzziness once in a while will cause them to abandon me to quickly find a toilet in which to vomit in.

So here goes. Dave (of "let's go" fame) called me today only an hour or so after leaving for work and said he was getting coffee and heard one of "our songs" and that he missed me and just wanted to call and tell me that. Yes, he is the best husband in the world and also has a very large penis, ladies I'm not kidding.

In other news I completely suck as a writer. Today anyway. I was all geared up to write but I swear every single word that came out of me today was shit. Yes, pages and pages of shit, like Jack Nicholson in The Shining. Over and over and over like this

shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit

Yes, it would make even you bug your eyes out like Shelley Duvall. Horror I tell you. Sheer horror. Of course this corresponds with my new resolve to submit my book to an agent every day without fail. So this is working out well.

Or it could be that I have subscribed to the daily email of The Writer's Almanac. Those of you who listen to public radio have no doubt heard The Writer's Almanac there - but they will, if you ask them nicely, send you an email copy every morning at 2:00 am (so make sure you turn your blackberry off at night.) Anyway, TWA is so awesome I can barely explain, so I won't but the thing is, reading all this great poetry and hearing about the lives of all these amazing writers first makes you want to write and then convinces you that you are a complete fraud. You start banging your head on the keyboard like that muppet on Sesame Street did on his piano keyboard "I'll never get it right! Never!! Never!!"

So that's where I'm at.

FYI - It's Zelda Fitzgerald's birthday today. Poor thing died in a fire in the asylum where she was committed because she had schizophrenia. I mean, really you can't make this shit up. How much worse can a life get? However in her hayday she and F. Scott were the quintessential Jazz Age couple, beautiful, flashy, with money, and often drunk in public so at least her whole life didn't blow a rhino dick.

Apparently as a writer she wasn't too shabby either. Here is an except from a letter she sent to him after their first date:

'You were a young Lieutenant and I was a fragrant phantom, wasn't I? And it was a radiant night, a night of soft conspiracy and the trees agreed that it was all going to be for the best."

Yeah. That was one of her letters.

I suck.

3 comments:

  1. Oh poor Zelda. She obviously was born a few decades too early. If she were born now she would have meds to control her illness and might even be a blogger with a big following which would of course make her happy.

    Way to go with Dave and the big dick. I lucked out in that way with Mr. Peach Tart also.

    I still haven't been able to figure out why you can't comment on my blog. Are you able to comment on other people's blogs who are on blogger?

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  2. Yes, the only one I can't post to is your site - in fact sometimes I can't even go into the site at all. Same thing happens, IE shuts down.

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  3. One of my favorite quotes is "All first drafts are shit"-- Hemingway.

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