I'm Sorry, Storm

i read my last post. WOW. (wow, but not wow...actually i've been hyper gassy for the past ten minutes, so wow.) I was uncharacteristically emotional that day but i've since sobered up and smothered all those pesky little girl feelings. Mostly in part to a relatively so-so book about clown sex, spousal abuse, deaf humor, and a murder most foul . Hats off to daniel for the recommendation and the subsequent hours spent stifling hellishly visceral laughter. Laughter so gutturally repugnant you flail your head from side to side like a horizontal light switch to check if the dead has in fact been raised. (So what if i'm overselling it a bit. You weren't there. You don't know.)

Here's the clincher: i have seven pages left, and have abandoned said seven pages for over 24 hours. As it is now, the story is completely open, dangling with possibilities. And once i jiggle and jostle those last drops, zip, it's over. But its become this big, bloated thing, hanging over me waiting to burst. Like a long, drawn-out relationship, where i wish she'd just spontaneously combust so i wouldn't have to end it. I don't mean that. It's only, i get scared when it becomes this serious, not just some lusty literary fling. Ah damn, i have to end it...the irony is killing me.

The name? How completely indifferent of me, her name was Apathy and Other Small Victories. If you ever happen to run into each other (which you will and should because she can make you real happy) tell her i said whatever.

An excerpt:
"He looked at me the way my mom did that time she caught me officiating the wedding of Mr. Potato Head and He-Man. I had just said, "You may now kiss the bride," when I looked up she was standing in the doorway. I was fourteen years old, and I was not wearing pants."

For an eleven year-old you used to pimp out his Storm action-figure to Mr. Sinister and Hobgoblin, mashing their super parts together and providing foreplay dialogue, i lived in fear of "the look."