Most people and situations bore the fuck out of me. I cannot abide Facebook. I don't want to see your food or grandchildren or pets. Lo siento. I am not a mature, complacent, congenial, normal forty-three year old woman. Yesterday I was walking to the pool with my son. I'd been awake for maybe fifteen minutes. I saw a couple near the gate. They had their damn dogs with them, on leashes. One of the men stared at me, expecting a friendly,"Good morning! Cute dog!" I just glowered from behind my sunglasses and he said,"We're trying to acclimate our dogs to other people." I said,"Well, I'm not a dog person." He said,"You're not?" I said,"Not at all." He apologized. I dismissed his apology. Then this morning in Wal-Mart there were fifty employees standing around like zombies but not one of the check-outs were occupied so I had to do self check-out which I fucking hate. It's just a hassle. I was scanning items and this employee came over and said,"Ma'am you have to put the items in bags after you scan them." I said,"Shut up."
I don't feel great about any of this. I'll be working in customer service soon. Yes. I'll be a concierge in a high dollar residence tower. I'll be expected to kiss rich ass. That's my job description. I suck at kissing ass, as you might imagine. I have a lonely Aquarius sun at twenty-nine degrees that squares my Taurus MC and trines my Uranus in Libra in the second house. There is a lack of fire and water in my chart. Air and Earth dominant. Virgo rising, Virgo moon, sun and Venus in the sixth. Saturn in Gemini in the tenth tops my chart. I've been accused of being hateful, cold, robotic.
But then there's my first house moon trining my Mars in the fifth. I love falling in love! I LOVE sex! Sex with someone I love. Random sex does nada for me. I have to KNOW a motherfucker in much more than the Biblical sense of the word. I love making playlists at YouTube. I love hula hooping. I love dancing. I love swimming. I love being left alone! Unless someone is kissing MY ass I'm not terribly interested in interaction. Well that's not entirely true. I do enjoy the occasional challenge. But it's quite acceptable to dismiss me as a bitch/asshole/misanthrope/hater. I don't HATE. I LOVE. But I HATE being fucked with. And I hate the whole strip mall rat race nine to five grind culture that is hailed by many as The American Dream. It ain't my dream.
I was going to write about The Great American Novel. Okay. Here's this. I was excited a few years ago to listen to Todd Moore read excerpts from his novel in progress, Dreaming of Billy The Kid, at Acequia in Albuquerque. Nonlinear. Dreamy. My brain is Nutella so all I can say is...Todd Moore fucking nailed it. I think of Todd and his work often. I'm honored to own a few of his signed chaps and the only reason I hold onto my copy of The Outlaw Bible of American Poetry is because Todd scrawled,"Misti, yr a helluva poet" on the flyleaf. One of the regrets of my life is that I missed Todd's seventieth birthday party because I was freaking out from postpartum depression and anxiety. He is the greatest writer I have ever known.
There are no limits but people like to think there are because limits keep shit safe. So write about yesterday's blow job and tomorrow's time share in The Hamptons. No risks. No blood. No sweat. No tears. Novels are hot dogs. Most of them taste the same. Condiments may vary. Some people go crazy and put the weiner on a wheat bun. Go baby GO. So in my arrogance I proclaim my latest novel is superior to anything (ANYTHING) you'll find at Barnes & Noble or Half-Price Books. Yeah, Fuckerbutt Happy Time is better than coffee and Star Wars collectibles. Sure, there's plenty of mediocre sex and projection in there but there's magic, too. Magic is the lacking ingredient in the memoirs and novels being churned out ad nauseam. Color coded. Approved by Oprah. MFA sanctified. Motherfucker PLEASE. I'm not concerned with Word Count, Demographic, Genre, page numbers, chapters. I won't be pitching the movie rights to Drew Barrymore.
"Are there lakes or rivers in New York?" (my son, he's eight)
"There's both, baby." (me)
"I mean in New York City."
"The Hudson River."
The other night at the dinner table I was bragging. I'm good at that. I was telling my ex-husband and my son,"Writer's retreat. Residency. HA. I write novels with baby noises and screeching sitcoms in my ear! No peace! No solitude! And I'm kicking ass!"
I really am. Idiots will say,"Well, you aren't making any money. You aren't making any rounds. You haven't flown on a plane since February 2013. So what's your point?"
The point is, I go where angels fear to tread. I met a guy from OKCupid at a bar a few weeks ago after a couple of phone conversations. Right away he told me I had crazy eyes but that's okay, he digs crazy white chicks. He's a Latino. Then he told me he did ten years for homicide. He was just a normal San Antonio teenager, you know. He killed someone with a gun. But things are cool now. He owns a house. He works his dick into the dirt. He showed me all his credit cards. But when I told him I've gone across to Mexico three times in the past year he was incredulous. "They kill white women over there." Well I'm still here, inexplicably. Writing my magical books that don't sell. Jumping through hoops of fire for a few minutes of peace in a Gemini sun Libra moon angel's beautiful loving arms.
My problem, chiefly, is difficulty in convincing other motherfuckers that I'm cool, I'm legit, I'm brilliant, I'm GOOD. Nothin' I can do about any of that. I'm just sitting at this spinning wheel like a regular peasant bitch, turning my tiny infinity of straw into GOLD.
I don't feel great about any of this. I'll be working in customer service soon. Yes. I'll be a concierge in a high dollar residence tower. I'll be expected to kiss rich ass. That's my job description. I suck at kissing ass, as you might imagine. I have a lonely Aquarius sun at twenty-nine degrees that squares my Taurus MC and trines my Uranus in Libra in the second house. There is a lack of fire and water in my chart. Air and Earth dominant. Virgo rising, Virgo moon, sun and Venus in the sixth. Saturn in Gemini in the tenth tops my chart. I've been accused of being hateful, cold, robotic.
But then there's my first house moon trining my Mars in the fifth. I love falling in love! I LOVE sex! Sex with someone I love. Random sex does nada for me. I have to KNOW a motherfucker in much more than the Biblical sense of the word. I love making playlists at YouTube. I love hula hooping. I love dancing. I love swimming. I love being left alone! Unless someone is kissing MY ass I'm not terribly interested in interaction. Well that's not entirely true. I do enjoy the occasional challenge. But it's quite acceptable to dismiss me as a bitch/asshole/misanthrope/hater. I don't HATE. I LOVE. But I HATE being fucked with. And I hate the whole strip mall rat race nine to five grind culture that is hailed by many as The American Dream. It ain't my dream.
I was going to write about The Great American Novel. Okay. Here's this. I was excited a few years ago to listen to Todd Moore read excerpts from his novel in progress, Dreaming of Billy The Kid, at Acequia in Albuquerque. Nonlinear. Dreamy. My brain is Nutella so all I can say is...Todd Moore fucking nailed it. I think of Todd and his work often. I'm honored to own a few of his signed chaps and the only reason I hold onto my copy of The Outlaw Bible of American Poetry is because Todd scrawled,"Misti, yr a helluva poet" on the flyleaf. One of the regrets of my life is that I missed Todd's seventieth birthday party because I was freaking out from postpartum depression and anxiety. He is the greatest writer I have ever known.
There are no limits but people like to think there are because limits keep shit safe. So write about yesterday's blow job and tomorrow's time share in The Hamptons. No risks. No blood. No sweat. No tears. Novels are hot dogs. Most of them taste the same. Condiments may vary. Some people go crazy and put the weiner on a wheat bun. Go baby GO. So in my arrogance I proclaim my latest novel is superior to anything (ANYTHING) you'll find at Barnes & Noble or Half-Price Books. Yeah, Fuckerbutt Happy Time is better than coffee and Star Wars collectibles. Sure, there's plenty of mediocre sex and projection in there but there's magic, too. Magic is the lacking ingredient in the memoirs and novels being churned out ad nauseam. Color coded. Approved by Oprah. MFA sanctified. Motherfucker PLEASE. I'm not concerned with Word Count, Demographic, Genre, page numbers, chapters. I won't be pitching the movie rights to Drew Barrymore.
"Are there lakes or rivers in New York?" (my son, he's eight)
"There's both, baby." (me)
"I mean in New York City."
"The Hudson River."
The other night at the dinner table I was bragging. I'm good at that. I was telling my ex-husband and my son,"Writer's retreat. Residency. HA. I write novels with baby noises and screeching sitcoms in my ear! No peace! No solitude! And I'm kicking ass!"
I really am. Idiots will say,"Well, you aren't making any money. You aren't making any rounds. You haven't flown on a plane since February 2013. So what's your point?"
The point is, I go where angels fear to tread. I met a guy from OKCupid at a bar a few weeks ago after a couple of phone conversations. Right away he told me I had crazy eyes but that's okay, he digs crazy white chicks. He's a Latino. Then he told me he did ten years for homicide. He was just a normal San Antonio teenager, you know. He killed someone with a gun. But things are cool now. He owns a house. He works his dick into the dirt. He showed me all his credit cards. But when I told him I've gone across to Mexico three times in the past year he was incredulous. "They kill white women over there." Well I'm still here, inexplicably. Writing my magical books that don't sell. Jumping through hoops of fire for a few minutes of peace in a Gemini sun Libra moon angel's beautiful loving arms.
My problem, chiefly, is difficulty in convincing other motherfuckers that I'm cool, I'm legit, I'm brilliant, I'm GOOD. Nothin' I can do about any of that. I'm just sitting at this spinning wheel like a regular peasant bitch, turning my tiny infinity of straw into GOLD.
No comments:
Post a Comment