o s t r i c h c r e a m s

Four people have asked me if I'm pregnant this week. This is like that time all those people told me I looked like Maggie Gyllenhaal and I started wondering if I was Maggie Gyllenhaal, because my mind is way into suggestive hypnosis. Or whatever. But maybe those four people are just, in a polite way, trying to suggest that I stop eating M&M's for breakfast snack lunch snack and dinner. Well. Those people can suck it.

In other news, Wigleaf and Brian Evenson think my story, Finding There (published in Cricket Online Review), is one of the Top 50 Very Short Fictions of 2009. This calls for M&M's!

[Aside: Husband is in the other room playing Wii Mario, and muttering things like "That was really, really dumb. I really hate myself. GAH!" I am laughing through my nose at this, hard, an alarming new trend in my laughstyle.]

And in perhaps the most revealing news I've yet disclosed in 2010, I went to see Sex and the City 2 the other day. Which means I paid to see it, in the theater, surrounded by other people who paid to see it. The more I think about this, the worse I feel. The movie was a pile of deathballs moldering on an altar of rotting meat. It is about women in much of the same authentic way the 90's rap hit "Informer" was about thug life. I still think the entire first 20 minutes of it was a fever dream brought on by M&M's, margaritas, and the mild hysteria clouding my irises that began once I clicked "Buy" on the Fandango website. I kept blinking my eyes, rubbing them, trying to get a purchase on what exactly I was seeing. I experience the same symptoms when I stare at the sun, or when I see Taylor Swift's face.

Anyway. That's what's new. Going to Savannah next week for a one-year anniversary trip. That is, if the husband makes it through the anguish-filled seizure he is currently having in the other room.

P.S. Reading a story about John Wayne Gacy at the Encyclopedia Show this Wednesday. TOO EASY COACH!

Alright listen up

Last night, I had a giant beer and no dinner, and then I went to a reading. And then I had a giant goblet of wine. And then my rape-y personality came out in full force. I may have flirted with someone's mother-in-law. I may have professed my love for someone I barely know. I may have made a joke about "cutting in" while people made out. I may have brandished a length of twine and a mallet. Okay not that last thing. But I may as well have.

It was like encountering that warm patch in your neighbor's pool, and in your terror to swim out, you actually swim deeper in. That's basically how I handled the situation - I dove right into that warm patch, mouth open.

All day long, I am surrounded by people I adore and who I can say anything to. I mean anything. No holds barred. It's pretty much constantly a to-the-death competition to out-horrify each other. So when I'm out in social situations that don't involve those people, I act like a goddamned idiot. Okay, maybe that's harsh? More accurately, I come off like BTK mated with Ted Bundy and then hired Marie Noe to raise me, and all she fed me was mini Hershey bars and espresso.

But all of this is to say that, if you encounter me in a public setting, and I start peppering the small talk with "date rape" and "diamond nips" and "Help me carry something to my car," please forgive me, and please change the subject.

Football. I like talking about football.

I'm on the right.

Oh my little mockingbird sing

I'm interested in you. What are you wearing? Are you attracted to the phrase 'foul language'? As much as I am? Have you ever seen the cartoon Spartacus? This would be the only validation I'd need. Like how as a child I told myself something happened, but couldn't truly be sure until a certain number of days had passed, and then when they had I couldn't really tell if they'd passed or if it had all happened in my mind. So I'd say, okay. Seven days from this moment, standing here next to the gumball machine in Wal-Mart. Each day is a hash mark, mark it. But I'd always forget.

Today at work my co-worker said, oh, okay. Now we know everything Lindsay says is a lie. What a relief! I thought. I mean, isn't it obvious? I always think to myself.

(But my nickname at work is "Pure." Hello, Pure. How are you doing, Pure? Don't you remember? She's Pure.)

The other day I asked Ben if he thought I was self-aware. Of course, he said.

My worst fear is to be one of those people staring off into space on the train, unaware. So I pretend to be one of those people and I try to always be aware of other people looking at me assuming I'm staring off into space.

This one girl once told me she could see right through people. I asked her to tell me what she saw. Oh, Lindsay, she said, you're too easy.

My dad told me I'm the most devious of them all. But I never forget his birthday.

And you. Oh my little bird in the cage. I can still feel my feet burning underneath me, sitting on them at 4 in the morning, watching Spartacus alone. My shoulders are bare. I am Spartacus.