we own things.

The east coast tour was a lot of fun. My dad showed up in Philly and me and Christian traveled separately like eccentric celebrities and I wore a dress once and I saw Elegant Elliot Offen and Amelia Gray’s new middle hair part and talked about Jerry Lee but not enough and my feet got swole and I ate pizza in Brooklyn and I thought Boston was a fun reading but turns out I was wrong and thank you to Gene Kwak and Jonathan Papas and my best friend KP and Sasha and Jason Hafer and KGB and Word and Lorem Ipsum and featherproof and Grace Krilanovich and Amelia Gray and Two Dollar Radio and featherproof and the Tebordo family and featherproof and everyone who came out to see us read, we’re sorry and you’re welcome and we’re sorry.  


Speaking of featherproof, Patrick Somerville's book is out! Imma rub my face on it.  


And now an accumulation of things I've been wanting to tell you:


I have a story up at Fifty-Two Stories, whoa. 
Bitch Magazine reviewed Daddy's!
I recently read from my novel in progress at The Parlor reading series. It felt good, real good. 
Richard Thomas reviewed Daddy's for The Nervous Breakdown!
Jesus Angel Garcia reviewed Daddy's and The Museum of the Weird for vol. 1 Brooklyn!
Ryan Bradley interviewed me at Big Other!
I did this with Blake Butler at HTML Giant!
I'm in Nylon's America issue! Here is proof:

That's me at the bottom, squinting into the afterlife. So exciting!


So that's what's been going on lately. I also cut my bangs. I also did deep lunges across my apartment the other morning. I also went to see Lynda Barry speak. It blew my dick off. 


Here is a recipe for pancakes: Bisquick and water. 

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.

Shit Gets Real.

It's been snowing all day and I snapped this photo before going inside to barf and cry.

I actually really like when something is both horrific and beautiful, as it is in Chicago today. Further examples of beautrific: Alf, baboons, a vagina.

Get my hole

There are times when it feels like my insides are hanging in strips after they've been grated from my body by a blind old man, and I'm walking through them trying not to touch them, but I can't help it.

You know?

For the most part it is music or art that fucks me up in this way. And that is for sure the case now. The combination of Frightened Rabbit, Lark and Termite (the secret fur oh man oh man), Blake Butler, and an old story of Steve Kanaval's I recently came across hidden in my desk has done the trick. What can I do but write and write and write.

I feel like I'm running from myself toward myself. Gross.

I am going to tag this entry "beer farts."