June 17, 2013

Pop.

I still hate that guy I met in LA that one time who told me I’d never amount to anything as a writer. I knew him all of fifteen minutes. And there we sat, in a gay bar in Venice surrounded by glitter and disco balls. His lipstick glistened as he smashed his hairy man titties together beneath a too-deep V-neck and blew kisses at a man walking by our table.

A Writer? How old are you, doll? He asked.

I’m seventeen.

Ha. Time to grow up kid. You’ll never write shit worth reading.

It’s so much easier to believe the bad stuff.

*Closes used copy of yardsale paperback novel*

Seriously? I could write this shit.

Yeah.

But you fucking didn’t, did you?

You know what’s kind of fun to play with?

Well… do you?

No, shut up man. It’s the wax pac man red shit they wrap the mini Babybel cheeses in.

Almost better than bubble wrap.

Oh *sigh*… the road not taken.

ryn: side note, and you may know this already, but Robert Frost’s poem by that name has been misinterpreted all these years. The line “and that has made all the difference” is seen by most as positive when it is, at best, neutral, if not negative. He said so himself.

ryn: truly strange and awesome coincidence. I love Frost’s writing and thought the man himself would live up to it, but then I spent some time in the Frost library at Amherst and changed my mind. An egotistical, slick-talking bastard that guy was. Which sort if proves that a Bukowski tattoo is fine, great even, because as you and I both know, the man is NOT the writing, and vice-versa. Iprefer Kerouac, though I admit it is cliche for a girl from California.

Thanks for reading. Fwiw, I think you’re an incredible writer. I haven’t read a lot, but what I see is that perfect blend of tragic and succinct and illuminating and honest that I always try to get and mostly fail.