I Have Become Accustomed To Rejection

I received a very kind rejection from Uncanny Valley. They enjoyed reading my work and thought it was “good, good stuff,” but, alas the story doesn’t quite fit their needs. They want something a bit more lighthearted and playful. I thought this story was playful in my dark, twisty way which they did indeed acknowledge. I will have to find something lighter and playful-ier. I just made that word. This fitting of needs. It’s a real bitch, isn’t it?

This Mississippi Review thing is kind of bizarre and upsetting. I wish I understood what was going on. I’m sad that whatever’s going on happened after I had a story accepted there. Dream? Shattered, only not so dramatically.

I have a story in the 30th anniversary issue of Mid-American Review called Down to Bone. I’m very very proud of this publication. This is a massive double issue with some amazing writers like Ryan Call, Gabe Durham, Lucas Southworth, and a bunch of other people. You should buy this issue. You will not regret it. Here’s an excerpt from my story:

My father doesn’t fuck me in our house anymore, out of respect for my dead mother’s memory. My father fucks me because she haunts him, because he misses her and still sees her and smells her. I’m only doing what a good daughter does, he says, what a good daughter should. He takes me to the nicest hotel in town, once or twice a week. He pretends he’s a better man than he is. He wears his best suit, carries his briefcase, and checks in alone like he’s in town on business even though we only live a few miles away. Then he calls me on my cell phone, tells me the room number. He tells me to hurry because he needs me now. I open my car door. Some days, I throw up in the parking lot, and then I stare at myself in the side mirror and apply a thick coat of my dead mother’s lipstick. I leave my breath sour. The door to his hotel room is always propped open, and he is sitting on the edge of the bed, his wide Salvation Army tie hanging around his neck. He looks old and used up. He smiles. My breath sours even more. He says, “You look just like your mother,” like he’s paying me a compliment.

***

My mother never laughed but she smiled a lot, pressing her thin lips together, the edges curling up slightly. She had long black hair that she loved more than anything. When I sat next to her, I would braid myself into the thick strands until she shooed me away.  On Saturday mornings, she spent almost an hour in the shower, carefully washing the week away. Afterward, she sat on the bathroom counter, parted her hair into four perfect sections and dried each one before twisting it into a knot and pinning it to her head. On Saturday nights, she and my father went to The Junction, a bar with loud music and cheap drinks at the intersection of two country highways. When she left the house, her hair was always piled in crisp, dark curls, and the air around her was thick with perfume. She would pat me on the shoulder and then walk slow and sexy out the front door. My father would smack her ass with a heavy hand and say, “Look at my lady,” like he was somehow responsible for the impression she made.  She loved me as best she could in a family where no one knew how to play their parts properly.

I’ve read lamentations lately about how dark and depressing “literary fiction” is and writers questioning why this is the case. I am frustrated by these conversations. Yes, there is a tendency in certain writing to exploit dark themes, to write about sadness and death and pain and when these themes are taken up badly, of course it’s a misery to read. When these themes are written about brilliantly though, the world cracks open a little more. I like writing about the things I write about. I will write something more extended about this but I just wanted to say this: I want to crack your world open a little and then a lot.

There is an outstanding issue of PANK up with writing from Rachel Adams, Stace Budzko, Sara Crowley, Alana Dakin, Tim Dicks, Chris Erickson, Jen Gann, Kyle Minor, Ansley Moon, Gena Mohwish, Johnsie Noel, Tia Prouhet, Laura Read, Keith Rosson, Chris Sheehan, Robert Anthony Siegell, Robert Swartwood, Robb Todd, Brandi Wells, and Bill Yarrow. You should, at your leisure, go and read this issue paying close attention to Adams, Budzko, Crowley, Dakin, Gann, Minor, Mohwish, Noel, Prouhet, Read, Rosson, Todd, and Wells which are my extra favorite pieces among twenty favorites.

I went to Chicago. There was traffic and more traffic and then more traffic still and I thought, “How do people live like this?” It took me three hours to drive 18 miles. I said some very foul things. At one point, I looked up and saw this passive aggressive advertisement for public transportation.

I yelled, “Fuck you,” and gave that sign the finger. Then a train zipped by.

I went to a reading that was interesting. I saw my Chicago crew (Rebekah, Tadd, Tim) and met Stephen Dierks, the editor of Pop Serial who was really nice, and Adam Gallari who has an English accent and other people too. This is what Tim wore:

So festive. Afterward, we went out to dinner at Forno in Wicker Park which was crowded and awesome. The dinner was delicious.

Outside of Tim’s apartment, the next day, I found this awesome wireless network:

We went to a fantastic Mexican restaurant in Andersonville called Frida’s. They made fresh tortilla chips. I cannot wait to go back. I had fajitas. Delicious.

Chicago has some great signage.

I went to Target and spent a horrifying amount of money buying things a new apartment needs.

I decamped from the provinces to my new, remote location and stayed in a Holiday Inn Express and had a great five hour phone conversation like I was in high school.

There is a castle on the campus of Eastern Illinois University. See? Fairy tales are real.

I am in the new town now, and I drive around looking for things and I am always lost. I keep wanting to flag down a passerby to ask, “Can you please tell me how to get home?” but I worry that they’ll ask me, “Where’s home?” and all I will be able to say is, “I don’t know.”

My new apartment is large and beautiful and flooded with light and filled with boxes and the detritus of moving your life from one place to another. I am largely without furniture for the next two or three weeks though I did buy a chair from Sofa Mart so I would have somewhere to sit until my IKEA furniture arrives via extortion, I mean, a truck. I have a balcony that looks out onto a field and then a thicket of lush green trees. I have wooden floors that are shiny and slick though I suspect they may be laminate. I am not in love with my kitchen appliances, which are white and that feels tacky to me somehow. I have air-conditioning for the first time in five years. It feels like such a luxury. I am sitting here, freezing my ass off on purpose because I can. I need to clean my bathroom so I can take a shower. I very much need to take a shower because I’ve been working my ass off since yesterday. I am gross and lowly. I will post pictures when my furniture arrives. Right now, though, everything is in disarray, I am overwhelmed, don’t know where to start. My mother is very concerned about my unpacking progress. The movers delivered everything I own in the world yesterday. This morning at 8:30 am my time, she called and asked, “Have you finished unpacking yet?” I said no, grumpily. She said, “You will not be able to think until you finish unpacking. Please hurry.” I told her to come help and I think she might next week. I have spent the morning working, trying to deal with all the things I have not been able to deal with for the past week. I have made progress. I have so much to do I don’t really want to think about it too much of I will make myself crazy. I will take it one thing at a time. It will all get done. It will all be okay. I have excellent friends. That must be said. I thank you. I thank you. I thank you. I bought new sheets and put them on my bed last night and it was such a luxury to slide into a 700 thread count situation. The sheets were slick though so I slid onto the bed and then right off the other side thanks to a remarkable confluence of angle, velocity, mass and momentum. I had to laugh. It was funny. There are no window treatments in my bedroom. This would be more of a cause for concern save that I am looking out onto the aforementioned field.  The problem, though, is that once the sun rises, I am done for. It is like the light of God is beaming onto me, commanding me out of bed before I am ready. And then of course there is the fact that I wouldn’t care if I was looking out onto a vast wasteland where life couldn’t be sustained. I don’t want people seeing me in my bedroom unless they are actually in my bedroom, with me, and the mere thought that such a calamity could occur is too much.  One of the many things I need to do today is work out some kind of window treatment option because I cannot handle that much sunlight in the morning or that kind exposure any time. It’s too much. I need to find a gym. I visited one yesterday that was smelly and sketchy. I miss my workout routine which is difficult but in its own way, satisfying and useful. My pants are falling off. There are two flies flitting about my apartment refusing to die. J is going to get here late tonight for a couple days and I am happy about that, to have someone here, to talk to, and not just someone, but him. I catch myself, sometimes, turning to tell him something and he’s not there. I have become accustomed to having him there in the space next to me. It has not been easy adjusting to the emptiness of everything. I live in my head too much. I want things that are too far away, too out of reach, that cannot be mine. For a few days, I will hold on to the here and now and it will be nice. I will appreciate the moments. I am lucky. Hear me. I cannot deny that there’s a part of me, more than I care to admit, that will think about about sunshine and how much I love it, I really do. I won’t feel even a little bit bad about that. There’s something you should know about sunshine. When my youngest brother was born, he was a surprise but he was adored, by everyone, and most of all by my mother. She called him sunshine because he brought her so much joy, because he brightened our family and made us complete, because she loved him so much she needed a name for him that could encompass her emotions. She chose sunshine because the sun is everywhere and necessary and inescapable, and that’s a lot like love. Soon we all started calling him sunshine. If I call you sunshine, it is like that.

All is strangely quiet on the writing front this week. Yesterday, I turned in a draft of my dissertation to the graduate school. They gave me a score of 20/20 because I know how to read directions about formatting and such. They actually grade the formatting, apparently. So unbelievable. I plan on turning in a draft to my committee on Thursday that will, I hope, resemble a final draft. I feel like maybe I might actually defend and I’m pre-freaking out about that now. I am starting to feel panicked about my moving date which is sooner than I’d like but I have a ton of prep to do for three new classes and a bunch of other stuff so reluctantly, leave I must. I’ve started packing very slowly because I’m purging crap but I haven’t gotten much done. Sometimes, I pack and someone unpacks what I’ve just packed. It’s annoying. I hope by now it’s clear that everything I say is annoying I actually find charming as all hell. I’m watching basketball for god’s sake. What is happening to me? Let’s legalize polygamy so we can all have our cake and eat it too!

(Lakers are gonna crush the Celtics. Mel Bosworth is going to be so damn happy and that makes me happy.It is good when my friends are happy.)

I needed gas so I pulled into the BP station because they pump your gas and I was alone and I hate pumping gas.The BP is locally owned. I was waiting for the attendant and I looked up, saw the sign, remembered how BP has basically killed the ocean. I drove off and I kept thinking about it all and I felt bad because the guy who owns the BP station, Dave, is really quite nice and when my battery died once he came out and put a new one in my car and when my car got stuck in the snow, he came and pulled me out and on and on. Boycotting BP is really hard in a small town. It’s not black and white in a place like this where you know the owner because he pumps your gas and helps you out. The evil corporation (and yes, they are evil) doesn’t feel the effects. The whole situation is terrible because the only people paying for it are those who can least afford it which is the way it always goes where big corporations are concerned.

I received my contributor copy of Gargoyle 56 today. It is massive. Consider buying it because there are works from Kelly Davio, Meg Pokrass, RYAN BRADLEY, the outstanding Shellie Zacharia, and a bunch of other fine writers.

I have a story in the issue called “How the Girl in the Glass Sheds Her Skin.” Here’s an excerpt:

In another state, in a city near an ocean where the air is always thick with salt and smog, Sasha meets Ryan, an endurance athlete—all muscle tightly coiled around bone—who pushes his body, submits to his human frailty, tries to rise above it. He teaches her how to transcend her own frailties. They spend hours running along the coast. They find euphoria in the agony of their worn bodies. At night, they soak together in a deep bathtub, drink red wine. They compare wounds. They never make love.

When Sasha’s womb stops bleeding, she knows she has found the depths of what her body can endure. She leaves Ryan a note, tucked in a worn pair of sneakers, thanking him for helping her with the cartography of her body. She drives across the country to the other coast where life is colder, moves faster. She meets Ivan, a Russian butcher, who is big and raw and cruel. He is open about his appetites. He reminds her of something she once knew. He doesn’t care about who she is or who she was, never asks questions so she never tells lies. He loves her and the way the bones of her face hold strong beneath his fist. He loves the way her body bends away from his so that he can trace the secrets she carries in tight knots along her spine. He loves the taste of blood on her lips, and how bruises flower along her shoulder blades. Sasha’s womb bleeds again. She allows herself to hope it might one day sustain life. She tests the newly marked cartography of her body. She has endured worse. He touches her. He is greedy and indelicate. When he falls asleep on top of her, still inside her, she drowns in him.

The rest of the words that go around these words are decent. I’ll post it to Fictionaut in a while. I’m looking forward to reading the Gargoyle issue after my life becomes my own again some time in July.

Let’s talk about the June issue of PANK. I don’t normally do this but I’m going to break some of this issue down. It’s our best issue yet. I said this last month and in April and in March and I will say this in July but come on! When you see what’s in this issue, you’ll understand.  When you see what’s in next month’s issue, you will understand. Rinse. Repeat.

First, you need to read Look Away Dixieland. When I was the weekly guest editor at Smokelong Quarterly, there were two stories that blew my mind and because the submissions there were, at the time, blind, I had no idea who wrote them. One was The Strain of Collusion, which I ended up choosing.  The other was Look Away Dixieland by Emily Howorth. The story was so smart and crisp and quirky and interesting that I asked Dave Clapper to send the writer a note mentioning how much I had enjoyed the story and invited her to submit it to PANK. She eventually did and I snapped it right up.  It’s the last paragraph (which reminds me of Erin Fitzgerald’s writing actually) I love the most but the whole thing is awesome or awes, if you will.

James Tadd Adcox’s Diseases, Disorders, Breaks is another favorite.  I was fascinated by this story because it was both familiar and foreign. I love stories where the writer builds a new world and does so in subtle ways. When a writer can do world building in a short story I am even more impressed. James Tadd Adcox impressed me with this strange new world of his and also with the dense prose and language tricks throughout the story. You can also listen to him do something neat with an except from the story.

I had an opportunity to read an advance copy of Melissa Broder’s When You Say One Thing and Mean Your Mother. With a title like that, the book is bound to be good and it was. I was really excited to see her name in the submission queue and you’ll find poems from her in PANK 5 and the June issue that are precise and pretty much perfect.

Anne Leigh Parrish is one of the most underappreciated writers out there. She should be as acclaimed as a Lorrie Moore or Annie Proulx. I first read a story of hers many years ago in the Virginia Quarterly Review and her work stayed with me. Parrish’s  Snow Angels is  a lovely story about a complicated family and as I read it the first time, I did not want it to end. All of Parrish’s writing is like that. Her work pulls you in very slowly and by the end of the story you start to feel a weight pressing down on you because she has pulled you into her world so expertly.

I have a real penchant for writing that uses human anatomy in interesting ways. Kaitlin Dyer does that in her poem As Lovers Do. This poem is visceral and beautiful and there’s a really interesting juxtaposition of reality and the impossible I find unforgettable.

Victoria Lynne McCoy demonstrates the power of a great title with her poem On the Day It Became Legal to Rape Your Wife.

Teresa Milbrodt is another writer who should be a household name. Her story Blue will appear in PANK 5 and she has a story in the June issue as well as another forthcoming issue of PANK online. Milbrodt is really imaginative and she does things with magical realism that make me believe in the impossible. When you read Blue, you will understand. In the meantime, start with Mr. Chicken, then go find other great writing of hers.

It is a real pleasure to publish a writer for the first time and we have the privilege of doing that with Johnny Peters’s Science. After I read this odd, charming little story I refused to believe he had never been published. Each paragraph could be a story in and of itself but somehow, they fit together. It’s uncanny.

A lot of people have been discussing Ocean Vuong’s poetry and rightly so. His writing is erotic, at times poignant, always sensory and engaging.  As I read these poems the first time, I thought, “These are visual,” and I really love that when I feel like words make me see something.

I didn’t quite know what to think of Ani Smith’s How to Do Your Makeup Like a Star when I first read it. Was it a story? A poem? Should I take it literally? Am I reading the subtext correctly? Any time writing makes me think, I know it’s good. Smith’s work in the June issue made me think.

There are these poems. Words that come to mind are masterful, moving, meaningful. I can’t say more. It would be awkward but know that sometimes as an editor you get really lucky and this is one of those moments.

Finally (and really I’m in love with everything in the June issue), there’s this story by Dave Thomas. There’s an attention to detail in this story I find remarkable. I also love how this story speaks to modern fatherhood and there’s a sadness to the ending that makes my heart break a little.

At Necessary Fiction, I write about publishing and feeling exposed and bad waitresses. You can also see words from Tim Jones-Yelvington and xTx. There’s so much amazing writing coming in the next two weeks. I remain thrilled and honored that Steve Himmer invited me to be the Writer in Residence and just… humbled by how every writer I approached, said yes without hesitation. That’s some kind of wonderful.

Outstanding submissions: 22

Rejections: 1, form

Conjunctions kicks it old school. Put your damn submission into an envelope. Stick another envelope in that envelope. Make sure you include a damn stamp. Shut up and wait for us to get back to you. Don’t you dare send that story to anyone else. Unlike many markets that only accept snail mail submissions, however, Conjunctions generally responds quite quickly. It only took them 53 days to send me a tiny little card that says my work does not meet their “particular needs.” Their needs? They are particular. My writing? Not particular. Not needed. Any questions?

My tenure as the Writer in Residence continues at Necessary Fiction. Today I talk about current projects and I reprint my story Between Things, which originally appeared in Pindeldyboz. I love this story. I made some Venn Diagrams. I write about the exact same things in almost every story. I know this about myself.  Also coming up this week, M. Bartley Seigel, Brandi Wells, Ryan Call, and Jensen Beach and maybe more! We’ll see!

I want to sit courtside at a Lakers game. I want to wear a simple but sexy outfit. Jeans, not intentionally torn jeans but actually worn jeans, slim leg (not skinny leg) boot cut jeans that flatter long legs. I want to wear a low cut wife beater and a silver necklace that hangs down the center of my chest and big hoop earrings like a fly girl. Even though my mom always told me good girls don’t do it, I’m going to let my bra straps show. I’ll wear my hair in a slick ponytail that has just enough bounce and I’ll rock a killer pair of heels, stilettos, of course, you know the kind, they’re painted red on the bottom. My lipstick and fingernail polish are going to match and I’m going to wear a lot of dark eyeliner. A pair of thick-framed black glasses is going to complete my look. I want to look sexy. I want to feel smart.

I want to go to the game with my hot Hollywood man and my best Hollywood girlfriend. She’s hot too. The three of us, we’re going to sit with our legs expertly crossed in those leather wrapped chairs with the thick cushions embroidered with the Lakers logo. I’m going to sit in the middle of my hot man and my best girlfriend and all night I’m going to have a little smile on my face. You know why. We’ve all heard the rumors. They’re totally true. We’re going to be surrounded by the other beautiful people, the ones you recognize and love and hate and hate to love. We’re going to talk with those fucking beauties about that starlet and the cokehead and the model and the has-been and sometimes, she or he will be the same person. We’ll speculate about the old guy who brought a girl young enough to be his granddaughter but isn’t his granddaughter because every once in a while you see him sticking his tongue in her ear. We’re going to talk deals and back ends and points and salaries. We will talk about everything without saying anything. We will drink alcoholic beverages in clear plastic cups, sipping slowly from straws until we can’t hardly feel our skin. We will glow and we will beam beneath the fluorescent lights and the sweaty basketball bodies and the stares of hundreds of camera lenses and millions of people who all wish they new what it was like to sit there, vibrating on display.

Once in a while, my best Hollywood girlfriend is going to lean into me and she’s going to be warm and I’m going to smell her perfume. She’s going to rest her hand on my knee and whisper something, anything, doesn’t matter, but her lips are going to brush my ear and I’m going to feel a sharp twinge and later I’m going to tell her, “Let’s go freshen up.” I’m going to cover her hand with mine and our fingers will curl together and we’ll hold on tighter and tighter and I’ll feel like we’re all alone at the center of this crowd. In that moment, it will feel like the center of the whole world. I’ll turn to my best girl and our lips are almost going to touch and we’re going to smile at each other.  She’s going to kiss my neck, just below my ear because she knows what happens when someone touches me there and then she’s going to look straight ahead and I’m going to look straight ahead and we’re going to pretend we care about what’s happening on the court.. When Kobe shoots a beautiful three-pointer from well beyond the arc, we’ll both nod appreciatively. We’ll still hold hands. You’re going to watch this happening and you’re going to think we’re lucky, to be so close, to be such good girls who are friends. We’re going to know something you don’t know and it won’t be what you think you know.

My hot Hollywood man, he’s the real Lakers fan. He’s a student of the game. When we go to Lakers games he wears slim designer jeans and black motorcycle boots and a white button down shirt because he knows that’s what I like. My man’s going to sit on the edge of his seat, the one closest to the Laker bench and he’s going to shout things to the players and the referees and sometimes he’s going to stand and gesture wildly. His hair is going to look amazing. His hair is going to look like he’s put no effort at all into its appearance. I’ll know the truth. When my man sits down, he’s going to sit real close like, with his hand resting inside the back of my jeans, just brushing my ass and I’m going to sink into that. When one of the players looks at me a little too hard, he will pull me into a dirty, wet kiss right there. He’ll hold me against him real tight, and his shirt will be damp with sweat but I won’t pull away. He’ll make it clear who I’m going home with. He’s possessive like that. Sometimes, we’ll look up and see that dirty kiss replayed on the Jumbotron and I will roll my eyes but I won’t mind. I love a jealous man.

Outstanding submissions: 22

Rejections: 1, personal

I received the most amazing rejection, or what could better be termed a rewrite request from One Ded Cow. I took their feedback, did some damage to the story in question and resubmitted. We shall see!

There’s no point in talking about anything else until we talk about Lost. I’ve watched the show since the first season. I have been undying in my devotion to the show and the unique storytelling approach the show has taken. I have thoroughly appreciated all the eye candy. Lost was original and smart and sexy and visually stunning. Sawyer… I can’t even finish that thought, so I’ll just say it again–Sawyer.

The Lost score has been consistently outstanding and nowhere was that musical excellence more evident than in last night’s finale where the very first strain of a violin at the beginning of the episode made me teary.

I was not at all prepared for how emotional and moved I was by the finale. I did not realize how invested I had become in the show. I’m not one of those fanatics who wears Dharma Initiative clothing and tries to parse the significance of the numbers on a daily basis so I fully expected to enjoy the finale and move on. Instead, I spent the entire 2.5 hours crying, sobbing really. I’ll also note that by the end of the episode I was not the only one in the room with red eyes but I cannot speak of this further without getting in trouble. My shirt was soaked with tears. It was ridiculous. I felt completely spent. I cried more than I did during the Grey’s finale. Yes, I use entertainment options as a means to cry my shit out because I’m emotionally constipated. It’s better than onions.

I’m fascinated by the intensity of the anger toward last night’s finale. I know some people are going to hate on the finale just to hate on the finale but wow, the crazies have come out today. Calm down people. It is just a television show.

I loved the finale. I loved everything about it. I felt satisfied. I was so happy to see all the couples reunite because I’m a sucker for that sort of thing. I loved the pacing of the finale, the wit, Ben choosing not to join the others in the church. I have more questions than I ever did and that is frustrating but that’s also what makes Lost so excellent–you’ll never fully understand what’s going on. We’re supposed to always have questions. Part of me also hated the finale. All along, the producers swore up and down that the show wasn’t about death or purgatory or heaven but to have the characters all walking, happily, toward the light at the end was… weak and ridiculous. I am absolutely willing to forgive this weakness because Lost was so consistent and so brilliant but we should at least acknowledge that they sort of fucked that up. I forgive you, Lost producers and writers because as a whole, Lost was amazing and entrancing, and I’ll certainly miss the show.

Sawyer!

I have a story, Do You Have a Place For Me, up at Spork. I am assembling a collection of work I’m going to call, I Confess These Things To You. This was not a planned set of writings so it’s kind of exciting. I don’t know if I’ll ever do anything with the collection. This is one of those sets of work where it might be enough to get the stories down, make them a little more real.

I am excited to announce that I will be the first Writer In Residence at Necessary Fiction for the month of June. I’ll be sharing the work of the writers who inspire me and who I respect the most, and who always push me to write the best fiction I possibly can. I will also be talking about a current project that’s giving me fits, maybe rambling about other things, and who knows what else. It should be a good time. Please do check in. Could these last sentences be any more vague? Translation: NO IDEA WHAT I’M DOING!

I wasn’t going to mention this but I think I’ve been controlled. You still have a week to vote for the Million Writers Award. The race is tight!

I don’t have any rejections to blog about today but there are things we need to talk about.

First, thank you, THANK YOU to everyone who has so kindly posted about the Million Writers Award and voted for me and otherwise supported my writing or just plain old me. Some of you have just gone over and above and you know who you are. I am overwhelmed by your kindness and anything I say about the depths of my gratitude would be awkward and embarrassing and ineloquent so I’ll leave it at that.

Grey’s Anatomy. We have to talk about this, right? Last night’s season finale demands a list. If you haven’t seen the episode, maybe don’t read this and skip to the bottom.

1. It was a great, great episode. The season finale was so ridiculous it eclipsed all known levels of awesome. I was entranced. We entered a cone of silence. I have totally gotten J addicted to this show so my work is done here.

2. The great (and terrible) thing about the Internet is that you know when contracts haven’t been renewed etcetera so you often know, with big shows, whether or not a major character is going to die. There’s been no scuttlebutt as of late about any major characters leaving Grey’s so I was pretty confident that none of my favorites would die and I was right. I was especially happy that the pretty man doctor is still on the show. Not him, but HIM.  Paging Dr. Avery to my bedroom. I need CPR, STAT only my CPR stands for [redacted].

3. How completely insane and messed up was it that they so conveniently murdered almost every single new character on the show? That is the laziest writing and show management I have EVER seen. The production attitude was clearly, “We fucked up with the stupid hospital merger story line and this is how we’re going to fix this mistake.”

4. A woman having a miscarriage, shrugging it off, and continuing with a non-critical procedure on a patient with a clean bullet wound. WTF? COME ON. A miscarriage can be very physically painful not to mention that it just breaks your heart if you wanted the baby. I’m pretty sure Meredith would have not just hunched over twice and then been like, “I’m a doctor. I don’t feel this pain. I’m going to save this man’s life even though he’s not dying.” Couldn’t they have at least tried to make it a little more realistic? Furthermore, isn’t that a bit much? How much suffering is really necessary in a season finale because Grey’s really tried to find those boundaries last night.

5. Thank you, Shonda, for making me cry so hard I made J worry. Seriously? Was it necessary for every single moment to be devastating? Even though the episode was ridiculous (awesome), I admit it got to me. I am not a robot. I feel things. The doctor with the big head dying, poor Reed, Derek, Meredith, Torres and Arizona getting back togehter. I was totally drained after the episode ended. I felt like I had worked out.

6. I don’t care for Owen. His face concerns me. There’s a ridge down the middle like a Klingon. Also, he is an overactor. He takes his lines, scrunches up his face, strains his voice and tries to make everything a sudden death match of acting. CALM DOWN, Jesus. Cristina Yang can do so much better; I am totally depressed they’re together. Bring back Burke!

7. Why do so many shows flirt so casually with moral ambiguity? I’m pretty free-thinking and nonjudgmental but I do believe in right and wrong and the way last night’s episode tried to make the MASS MURDERER a sympathetic character defies credulity and decency. Murder is not okay. It just isn’t, no matter how tempting it can be. No, I don’t believe in the death penalty.

8. When a medical drama inserts a shooter or other psychopath into the hospital, you know they’ve run out of ideas and are on the verge of unleashing a helicopter falling out of the sky. See: ER

9. The stupid, tormented, vengeful shooter. Oh your wife died, the wife you adored, and you think the best way to honor her memory  is to kill countless people? A man who loved his wife that much would not be capable of such a horrifying act. BAD WRITING! BAD BAD WRITING!

10. Another ludicrous turn of events is the Mark, Lexipedia, Karev love triangle. Karev loves Izzie and unfortunately, Izzie is played by Katherine Heigl, who like Scott Baio, RUINS EVERYTHING. Mark and Lexi belong together. Karev and Izzie belong together. I belong in an asylum for spending this much time contemplating imaginary people.

11, Best episode ever, basically.

Moving beyond Grey’s, I’ve been writing about the heart a lot lately, figuratively, not literally though sometimes, literally a little bit, and I’ve concluded that it is a very confusing, crazy thing, the heart, what it wants, what it needs. I think I will be writing from this vein (haha) for a while longer.

It’s the weekend. I am glad it’s the weekend, but there’s something a little bittersweet about the weekend, sometimes.

Outstanding submissions: 19

Rejections: 1

I had to withdraw a piece from Unsaid yesterday that was taken somewhere else so I thought I would query about the other two pieces there and the editor said, oh, I sent you a rejection for those a month ago, please go away, only very nicely. I felt doubly rejected. This past week has been rather epic on the rejection front. It is now a source of amusement. My question has become: how many rejections will I receive this week? I believe I am at seven. This is exciting, isn’t it? Shall we wager?

Speaking of wagers. I have wagered one Mel Bosworth that the Lakers are going to crush his terrible green Celtics with bad facial hair  into very tiny, insignificant particles. A modest sum and bragging rights are involved. Why? What did you hear? Mel is a good person and a good friend. He has a nice blog where he spends most of his time tirelessly promoting the work of other writers. The phrase “hot lunch” makes me think of a sweaty, humid lunchroom and standing behind the serving line wearing a hairnet, serving mystery substances. That is to say, the phrase makes me sad. Mel likes to videotape himself reading the work of other writers. I don’t know why. Mel has a book coming out soon from Aqueous Books. I hope you buy it.

Ethel Rohan is another friend who tirelessly promotes. She is a soulful person who probably reads more online literature than anyone I know. She has a nice blog called Straight From The Heart In My Hip. Have you ever heard such a gorgeous phrase? Ethel is in a little documentary about PANK. She has a terribly sexy voice. Some day you will see this video and you will understand. Sometimes, she takes pictures of herself with a book in front of her face. I don’t know why. Anyway, get to know her. She’s excellent.

xTx is yet another friend who likes to spread the literary love. She is nice and witty and charming and other things I will keep to myself so that maybe you get jealous. She has a nice blog called Nothing to Say only she has a lot of things to say–false advertising!  She likes to host theme summers on her blog and pimps the work of other writers all the time. I don’t know why. She has a book called Nobody Trusts a Black Magician; it is free so you should read it but even if it cost money I would say you should read it. It’s a small world so she also wrote a book with Mel called Shudder Pageant. I have read Shudder Pageant. I quite like it. I will blog about it some day soon I hope before I forget everything I loved about it. That’s free too so read it. Ever since I heard that first title, I have been thinking of people nobody trusts. For example, nobody trusts a skinny chef. Nobody trusts a white basketball player. Nobody trusts a Catholic prostitute.  Anyway, that’s how I spend a lot of my time. I’ve come up with a pretty great list.

Amber Noelle Sparks lives in D.C. and when I read her nice blog, I feel smart–the way I wrote that implies there is a connection between these two facts. There might be.  She is up on current events and such so instead of reading the newspaper or something like that, I simply read her blog. She has been known to say nice things and like all these other fine people, she too does a fantastic job of spreading the word about other writers. Amber is the Fiction Editor for Emprise Review. If you are reading this, you should send her something excellent. She wants something excellent to read for upcoming issues.

I don’t think there’s a community that does more to support each other than the independent writing community. This is not to say that there aren’t petty rivalries and gossiping and whatever but at the end of the day, most writers are very generous to other writers and I don’t think that happens as much in the mainstream publishing world.

I went out with friends last night and I thought the whole night would be awkward for reasons too complex to get into. Only some of it was and I had been given things to daydream about before the evening so that was useful. There were some interesting conversations and we gossiped about work. There was an uncomfortable moment (that had nothing to do with me) that I simply avoided by taking a minute to day dream. People bought bottles of wine and it felt very fancy since we weren’t messing around with puny little glasses. Many people said they would really miss me because I am moving soon. I thought, “These people are telling the truth. They like me. I will be missed.” I realized, maybe I am not this girl anymore. I have to try and remember that because I still see myself that way every day and maybe to my detriment. I had a Ceasar salad for dinner and it was delicious. Then someone started buying shots and I thought, I will miss these people too. The shots encouraged that sentiment but not entirely. The waitress was so angry with us because we were in the restaurant forever. It was weird, though because we sat in the bar part which closes at like 1 or 2. I think she had a hot date waiting for her. I think she was listening to us and our lame academics drinking conversation and all she could think was, “I could be getting nailed right now,” and maybe that’s why she kept asking us every five minutes, “Do you want more drinks or can I start your checks,” and we kept saying, “More drinks.”

I have a point. All of this ties together. I am grateful for the people in my life both near and far.

This book, Girl Crush, that I may or may not have had something to do with is on sale now if you’re looking for something mature and titillating and amusing to read. The price is right.

To sum up: THE CELTICS ARE A TERRIBLE BASKETBALL TEAM.

I haven’t been rejected today but I am having a great hair day and we need to talk about that. I am still at work so that is dulling the shine of my great hair day, but still, I’m pleased with my coiffure. I woke up this morning and I thought, I don’t remember the last time I didn’t just pull my hair back with a headband. I thought, “Self: You have been looking like a crazy lady lately. Your hairbrush misses you. You have stopped caring about your hair because it is falling out. That’s no excuse for neglecting yourself.” I washed my hair enthusiastically. I combed my five hairs and used my hairstyling equipment and products. I was so pleased with the results I had an impromptu photo shoot with myself.

As for the falling out thing, that is still happening, I am alarmed. I’m going to deal with it in Chicago or St. Louis this summer where there are like, real dermatologists.

Then I went to the package store to send my youngest brother something he accidentally had shipped to my place. I included a really passive aggressive note. Let’s just say a picture of a pig was involved. He’s going to love that. Anyway, the lady at the package store said, “Wow. What did you do with yourself???” She was just so shocked and I realized, oh hell, I have been looking tragic. The thing about being in academia is that you can look mediocre and you’ll blend right in. I don’t want to be that professor who just stopped caring so I’m going to try to comb my hair every day. Baby steps. In all fairness, though, working out a lot is really a good hair day killer. I could probably relax my hair once every two weeks.

I tried to take a decent picture of my hair style but then chopped off the top of my head. Still, though, the sides are banging. Also, I have a neck now and that’s pretty fabulous. And as you can see, I’ve been working seriously today because my glasses are on my face. This is a rare occurrence. I don’t know why my hand looks like a Hulk hand. I’m sad about that.

The voting for the Million Writers Award is now open. Vote your conscience–me, or PANK contributors Rachel Swirsky or Summer Block. For real, their stories are outstanding. I will not blog of this matter again until May 30.

For the record, I am not being sarcastic when I say I am excited about Tyra Banks’s new book. Is it going to be bad? Absolutely. Am I going to love it? LIKE SHOWGIRLS. I hear tell that my Chicago friends (YOU ARE MY FRIENDS WHETHER YOU LIKE IT OR NOT) are planning a performative release party for Modelland. I am peeing myself for this, in advance.

I wrote this about obsession. Me? Obsessive. Never.

Seriously, though, my hand. WTF? Scary.

Outstanding Future Rejections: 19

Current Rejections: 2, personal

Another day, another set of rejections.

First, another exceedingly nice rejection from New York Tyrant. I’m bummed. The story I sent them is one of my strongest. I rarely am so confident about my work but sometimes you just know when a story works.  Anyway, I will take another look at the story and see what I might do to improve it. I will send them more work.

I also received a really nice rejection from Copper Nickel for a different story; they were very interested in my work but alas, not so interested as to accept my story. I will try again.

I recently bought New York Tyrant 2.2 and I have to say, it’s such a grand magazine. There’s a story by Eva Talmadge in the issue that is exceptional. The paper feels good against my fingers–a bit thick, slick, lovely. I highly recommend reading an issue or five of New York Tyrant.

I wouldn’t mind an acceptance soon. My spirits are flagging.

Most people assume I’m not very girly but on the inside beats the fluttering heart of the girliest girl. She is undercover. Any way, my inner girlie girl loves product. She loves perfume. She loves pink. She is not crazy about dresses but does really enjoy Maxi Dresses paired with combat boots. Anyway, I was in Sephora about a year ago, maybe longer, and this psychotic little sales lady with perfect makeup starting blabbing about this new product line called Rx For Brown Skin and I fell for her spiel like the kind of customer they talk about in customer service training who will buy anything if you use certain key words like “pore minimizing” and “beauty enhancing” and “will make you look like Halle Berry.” I bought the whole set–the moisturizer, the face wash, the toner, the magic elixir–and though it was expensive, I was really into the product. I felt like it made my skin softer and clearer. CRISIS TIME: I’ve recently run out of face wash and I cannot find the product anywhere. It seems to have been discontinued and now, only fragments of the product line are available. I am being rejected by retail. I am devastated. I am now auditioning new products.

Does anyone else hate Russell from Survivor? He’s so overconfident, so… shockingly lacking in self-awareness. Also, Russell, we know you’re bald. Don’t be ashamed. Own it. Seeing him lose Survivor twice… I’m not proud but it felt great.

I got mentioned here at New Pages. I am flattered. A story of mine made it into the top ten for the StorySouth Million Writers Award with nine other exceptional stories. I will try not to mention this too many times but feel free to vote for me starting tomorrow, I think. I like to win.

Outstanding submissions: 22

Rejections: 1, personal

Another really nice, efficient rejection from New York Tyrant–scary name, awesome editor/readers. I  bought an issue I’m looking forward to reading and perhaps getting a stronger sense of what they are looking for but also just to read good writing. It’s a fine looking magazine.

There’s so much I could talk about but most of it is personal so none of this will likely make sense or be interesting. At the same time, this is a blog and blogs are for babbling.

There’s the frustrating thing that reminds me of when my brothers and I were toddlers. We would have terrible tantrums, and my mother would just calmly put us in our playpen and wait us out. I wish I had her maturity and grace and a big playpen.

There’s the surprising thing that came out of left field inspiring thoughts haven’t had in like six or seven years. Odd, fun.

There’s the maybe exciting thing that might not be a thing but could be a thing and if its a thing I’d be super excited. That was a circle of empty language but if this thing becomes a Thing, I will let you all know.

There’s the dissertation thing that is just SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK still. Crack is wack. I have never been this blocked. I’m… shocked at how blocked I am. RHYME TIME!

There’s the gym thing…having reached a modest milestone, I have taken matters to another level by now going to the gym not once but twice a day sometimes. Don’t be impressed–I’m pretty lazy at the gym and mostly I do it now because its the one place where I don’t feel crazy. Instead of crying on the outside, I now cry on the inside and complain on the Internet. Excuse me, I bitch on the Internet.

Got into a treadmill fight this evening with a skinny girl next to me. She had great gym clothes; they matched. I wish these girls would learn, though. I will stay my fat ass on that treadmill until my legs fall off. STOP LOOKING AT MY CONTROL PANEL. Jesus. There we were, she was running and I was walking rather briskly. I took a picture of myself afterward–it wasn’t pretty. Anyway, I had been there for about 20 minutes minding my business, daydreaming about court side seats at a Lakers game during the upcoming finals and sitting next to Brad Pitt with my movie star husband Ben Rose. You all remember Ben, yes? We got on quite well, Brad and I. From 30-45 minutes, the girl next to me kept eyeballing me which made me wonder what her deal was. I sniffed myself to be sure I didn’t smell. She made me super self-conscious, like WHAT??? Bitches be trippin’! She kept running but she looked kind of peeved. I kept walking. In a race, I wouldn’t beat this girl on her worst day though to be fair, I was on a 5 incline so I felt like we were doing similar things. Plus, I was burning more calories. TAKE THAT. Anyway, at 49 minutes, I was pretty aggravated to be in this situation and very ready to be done. She was too I think because she started holding the handlebars. At 56 minutes, I thought, if I die here, I hope someone comes to my funeral. I was really sad  because I had gone to the gym at 11:15 am and so I was super tired the second time around and ready to nap. At 60 minutes, I looked at her and I could tell she was very determined. I didn’t think I could keep walking without biffing it so I conceded. Yes, you win, little lady. You’re hot and skinny and you won the treadmill fight. I hope you’re happy. She literally stopped her treadmill 30 seconds after I did. I wanted to say, BIYAAATCH! When I got home, I had an ice cold diet cherry pepsi. It was awesome.

There’s the moving thing, the OMG I have to pack up all this stuff thing, the I’m moving to a town where I don’t know anyone thing and all this is going to happen in two months thing.

There’s the what have I done with my life thing. I was talking to my colleague (and more importantly, very good friend) and we’re both leaving… a lot behind to go live alone in strange cities after busting our asses for our careers for 15 years or so. For both of us, staying is not an option without giving up the very thing we’ve worked so hard for. We won’t be alone forever but still, to be 35 and to only have a piece of paper to show for it is bittersweet. Professional success is not always compatible with personal happiness and I’m trying to be okay with that.  Leaving is going to be difficult; exciting but difficult.

I promise in a couple months, I’ll have a whole new set of interesting things to talk about. Forgive the repetitive nature of this blog. Change is coming. Until then, bear with me?

I had a fantastic weekend. Friday night, I had a conversation with an ex-convict with a mullet and the party in the back was a long white braid. He taught a friend and I about craps even though we weren’t looking for a lesson. There was also an inappropriate interaction with my chest. Overall, I felt pretty awesome about the exchange. I love meeting interesting, crazy people. He was in prison with “the brothers” and also discussed Spades, or the one Negro card game to rule them all. Fantastic.

On Saturday we watched SNL and it was amazing and we played a drinking game where we… just drank. Then we went to a bar and I watched a pool game. Then other things happened that you would not find interesting but I do. I thought the whole weekend was A+. I really let loose and I do mean loose for the first time in a while. I need to do that more often.

Let’s talk about a terrible poker hand from Friday. I lost a huge hand to a douchebag playing Jack Six. Yes, for those of you who play poker, SOMEONE PLAYED JACK SIX off suit. I had Q 8 suited. Flop came Q 8 6. I bet $75. He called that huge raise at a $1/2 table. He called holding his shitty little low pair.  The turn came J. So this guy had his two pair and I had my two pair. I bet $100. He called. I was like, does he have pockets and made his trips? I was baffled. I was on the button though so I felt pretty good about things. The river was a 6. This guy goes all in with $400 or so dollars. I have about $390 left in front of me. I think, there’s no way I can lose this hand. That’s my fault, such silly overconfidence, I should have not been in the hand. I called. When he showed his cards, he was super smug. He said, “I have a full house.”  I said, “Motherfucker” and got reprimanded. There’s a rule about no cursing at the poker table even though I do it all the time. That’s when I met my braided mullet friend. I had to leave the room, which was full of drunk idiots playing stupid poker. I made it all back at the Blackjack table so the story has a happy ending.

PSA: Saw I Hate Valentine’s Day over the weekend. It was dreckitude.

I do have two short stories up. At Spork, La Lonchera and at Dark Sky Magazine, Support Group. I’m very excited to be a part of both of these fine magazines.

Outstanding submission: 17

Rejections: 1, personal

I received a really nice, really personal rejection from Puerto Del Sol. It is always nice to see an acknowledgment that my work has been read and considered by a human. The phrases “great intensity” and “impressive style” were used and let’s face it. I love compliments so I will be sending them more when submissions re-open.

You may notice I take a lot of pictures. I do so because I’ve lived through some hard things and the past few years have been the best of my life and I don’t want to forget any of it. I’m going to brag now.

On Friday I received a little recognition from the university and was named a woman of promise (?!) and there was a fancy luncheon and I got a gift bag. The gift bag is cute but I forgot to take a picture of it. Trust me on this. The food was, of course, terrible. I pretended to be a vegetarian. I had to get my picture taken. I had to stand up in front of a room full of strangers so that was pretty traumatizing. I got through it by thinking about my cute gift bag and how excited I was to get home and see what was inside. I didn’t want to be tacky and do that like right there in front of everyone. As I sat through the lunch and then lots and LOTS of talking, I kept thinking, maybe there’s something magical inside that bag. Maybe there’s a little tiny baby inside that bag. Maybe there’s money in that bag. You will be sad, perhaps, to know that inside the bag was a program, some promotional items from the university like a pencil, a very nice glass object that I will use as a paperweight in my new job and a university-branded water bottle that I will use at the gym. Below you will see the empty room. We were all standing awkwardly in the corner waiting to be told what to do.

Below is what I ate for lunch. The theme was Asian cuisine, approached with a broad, industrial culinary stroke. It was sad. You can’t see my face here, but after I took this picture, I dejectedly moved food around the plate and thought that this was good for my weight loss project. I mean really. The food had a disconcerting gray pallor to it.

I was cheered by tulips.

For dessert, we were served a mystery substance. I was very frightened by this. I asked the professor sitting next to me, who is on my committee, “What is this?” There may have been panic in my voice. I worried that the substance might morph into a terrible alien creature and attack us. Then I poked at it with a spoon. It was cold and congealed and shifted slightly when it came into contact with pressure.

I eventually learned that it was some kind of sorbet. Terrifying.

The luncheon itself was quite nice. A bunch of fantastic alumnae who have accomplished awesome things where inducted into the President’s Alumni Council and then the women of promise students were recognized and we got certificates. Academia loves to bestow certificates. You are excellent! Here is a piece of paper to commemorate that excellence! I keep all mine in a folder not because I don’t care but because I don’t want to be obnoxious and get them all framed. I have a mother for that sort of thing. In all seriousness, I was very honored to be recognized. Only one person from every department is selected. I felt special on Friday. I’m not done bragging, I’m afraid.

That night, my department chair and his wife threw a lovely reception for the five of us in our program who are completing our PhDs this semester and moving on to tenure track positions this fall. Look at this fancy spread in their terribly fancy home.

I am, believe it or not, a very picky eater so I murmured pleasantly and just admired the display and thought about hotdogs. The universe was determined to make me lose 7.1 pounds that day and it’s for the best.

We are blissfully removed from lots of nonsense up here in the UP but the Tea Party has managed to find us up here in the North Woods. The good thing about this sign, I suppose, is that all the words are spelled correctly.

The books I ordered from AWP finally arrived, my having shipped them. I am pleased but have had not the time to really enjoy my loots. See how I pluralized loot? That’s a quirk I get from my parents who butcher English in ways that keep my brothers and I endlessly amused–I mean, we’ve basically re-enacted my dad’s NPR interview about 511 times. My dad calls rubble rubbles so now I try to pluralize everything. LOOTS.

Ummm, how cute is that bag, for reals? PLURAL.

I was feeling pretty good over the weekend and J was craving something sweet and I was feeling like baking only I had to bake something I would not eat. I said, if I do this you have to worship me all week and do as I say and he said, how is that different from other weeks. Sassy. I made fudge. I admit I tasted it. It was awesome.

On Tuesday night, I taught my last class at MTU. Around half an hour before class one of my students stopped in and asked if she could borrow my key to get into the classroom. She wanted to just sit there and study quietly. I said sure, no problem. I continued grading until class time, gathered my belongings, and went to class where I saw my entire class, there, on time, in a room filled with balloons and cakes and cupcakes and other treats. They threw me a party, y’all. I was so shocked I had to excuse myself. I ran to my office, cried a little bit, grabbed my camera (of course!) and then we partied. I can complain with the best of them but at the end of the day, I am truly blessed. No matter how much I bitch, please know, I recognize my blessings.

So yeah, that happened. And it happened at the end of a really hard day when all I wanted was to do something violent or run into a wall or lose some teeth so it meant that much more. I’m still overwhelmed by the gesture and the elaborateness of the festivities and I’m humbled to know that maybe I’m a good teacher and make an impact once in a while. Seriously! They baked those cakes. They used fondant. They made little frosting flowers. OMG.

I have a story in Sententia #1. You should buy Sententia. The issue is stacked with talent including work from Mary Miller, who is like my favorite writer behind the woman of my dreams who is the alpha and the omega of my favorites. I would like to talk about this more but I don’t want to make things awkward. Just understand that there’s writer crushes and girl crushes and then there’s THIS and I’m all about THIS.

Here is an excerpt from my story in Sententia:

Ever. Happily. After.

This is a fairy tale. There is a princess who is not a princess but we will call her a princess because every fairy tale has a princess. Her name is Tanya. She’s the daughter of a mechanic and a housewife. She has two brothers and two sisters. She is the middle child. She works at the JC Penney’s hair salon. She has a pretty face. she is often told because she is pretty face fat, which is not to be confused with Discovery Channel fat, but she is large enough she can’t buy clothes at Old Navy. Tanya is not unhappy. She stands on her feet for eight, nine, ten hours a day listening to old women gum their way through their sentences because they left their dentures at home. She rolls their thin white hair with tiny rollers even though she thinks putting a perm in someone’s hair is a crime, a real fucking crime. Still. There’s not much she can do about it. Old women want what old women want, and at the JC Penney’s hair salon, they want their hair tightly coiled to their dry scalps so when they wake up after falling asleep in the oversized chairs in their living rooms, their hair still looks freshly done. Other women come to the salon too. They come to get their nails done or to get cheap A-line hair cuts or blow outs and it makes them feel, for an hour or two, like they’re not in a small town at the end of the world, which is the edge of Northern Michigan. The salon is brightly lit with shiny faux-marble floors and mirrors lining three walls and in the middle, rows of sinks abutted by hair dryers. There’s something fantastic about the lighting in the JC Penney’s salon—no matter what her physical flaws, the warm lights and the reflective surfaces make a woman glow and look like the most beautiful woman in the world.

This is a fairy tale. There is a prince who is not a prince but we will call him a prince because every fairy tale has a prince. His name is Elmer. He’s the son of a drunk and a coward but it could have been worse. That’s what Elmer tells himself when he thinks about his life. He works at Applebee’s and he loves his job. He tells himself that too because the work is steady and there’s free food to be had and because he has a small weed habit and his dealer lets Elmer pay for product with Applebee’s gift cards. The dealer, whose name is Tommy Tommy though no one knows why, loves Applebee’s because he sees the restaurant for what it is—a place where you can have microwave-prepared food brought to you.  Tommy Tommy recognizes the hustle and he appreciates it. Elmer also loves his job because every time a member of the wait staff leaves the kitchen, they have to say, “walking out.” Elmer amuses himself by saying “walking out” in a different voice or intonation each time. This habit does not endear Elmer to his coworkers. Elmer has long hair. It is long and thick, hangs well past his shoulders. He is very proud of his hair. It makes him feel like an outlaw, especially when he’s biking to work on his ten-speed. When Elmer was in high school, he dated a girl named Cindy Daavettilla and she always tasted like mouthwash and even though she wouldn’t have sex with Elmer or even give him any head, she did brush his hair every afternoon after school. As she brushed his hair and worked product through the long locks she said, “No matter what happens between us, promise me you’ll never cut your hair.” Elmer’s heart pounded fiercely when Cindy said such things and the hairs on his arms stood on end. Her words sounded a lot like love so he promised and even after they broke up only seven weeks after they started dating, he continued to keep his word. Now, nine years later, Elmer’s hair is so long the weight of it makes his neck hurt, but he remembers Cindy sitting on the edge of his bed, his head in her lap, her skinny knees pressing against his shoulders. The memory of it makes the pain go away.