I’m going to do Maundy Thursday with the Masons. It should be awesome. Or weird. I’m nervous, as I get before all new things. And I have an unbecoming rash. As you may have heard.
So you should check out this cool article on all the print shops here in Nashville.
My first dream is to write a post that could appear on all of the Pith blogs simultaneously.
My second dream is to publish a motherfucking novel.
Ugh, damn you, reality, for intruding.
My second dream is to write a cover story for the Scene on something. Not sure what.
Look at that! That is a rash I have developed since I put this shirt on. It is the same kind of rash my mom and I tend to get when we’ve eaten something we’re allergic to. My short list of food allergies: strawberries. My mom’s: strawberries, tomatoes (sometimes), other berries (sometimes). Her strawberry allergies are more mild than mind, so she still has them occasionally, whereas I can’t.
But I haven’t eaten anything weird.
I had a chocolate chip cookie with lunch.
And I swear, people, if I am allergic to chocolate chip cookies, there will be hell to pay.
But, hey, nothing like a terrible rash to make my trip to Maundy Thursday a little more anxiety-producing.
You can’t retire! Who’s going to put up important notices at Tony’s? Who’s even going to know that you need to put things you need everyone to see at Tony’s? We’re going to get some yahoo from Bellevue, mark my words, and I will have zero chance of ever seeing him at the Dairy Queen.
Is someone from Bellevue going to know the joy of creeping right up to the edge of the ridge in your car and then letting your foot off the gas so that you coast down it going faster and faster and faster until you’re sailing by the little Methodist Church, the corner where a cemetery should be, the trailer park? Are they even going to be able to guess where the Devil’s Elbow is? What will they have to say about our neighbors with pigs in their yards? Are they going to understand our peculiar charms?
This is terrible. I have half a mind to go latch on to your ankle and let you drag me behind you while I cry.
Thanks to W. for passing it along. This is how a woman turns into a flock of birds, once she gets good at it.
Ugh,Flock. Let’s not talk about it.
I’m working on a story about a guy who is haunted by Chris Benoit. I’m trying to teach myself how to write truly scary things and I have to say that what happened to Chris Benoit scares the shit out of me–that doing what you love can hurt you badly in ways you would not be able to recognize, that you becoming more religious (which is taken as a sign of you pulling yourself together by your friends and family) is actually an indication that you’re batshit, and that you’d slaughter your whole family. And that, even after all that, your workplace would deny any tie between your actions and their work environment, even though you’re not the only one with a brain full of swiss cheese, and your co-workers would go on slamming their heads repeatedly for the entertainment of millions.
But my story is about an ex-football player who spent the years after his retirement drinking until he found God and remarried his ex-wife. And then he starts to see Chris Benoit around his house. And he has some concerns about what that might mean.
I’m enjoying it, even if I can’t quite figure out how it ends.