So apparently, as of May 10, Flesh & Blood is closed to submissions until September. D'oh! Need to find somewhere else to send this story in the meantime -- I'm thinking Cemetery Dance could work. We'll see.

Speaking of writing, I was browsing my old directories and came across some old stories I wrote in school, one of which more/less signifies the beginning of a lesbian relationship between two teenage girls. (Nothing really happens, but there's subtle flirtation and at the end of the story the two girls ditch school together to go eat ice cream.) I was just thinking yesterday that maybe Ellen DeGeneres should've kept her mouth shut about the supposed sexual abuse from her father, given the various arguments that homosexuals are "created" through such traumatic childhood experiences as, surprise!, sexual abuse, and that this constitutes proof that same-sex attraction is unnatural and caused by icky things. But oddly enough, in this story, I wrote sexual abuse into the background of one of the girls. I don't know why I did that. Weird. (more...)

At some point during the three hours of sleep I got last night, I dreamed that I'd totally forgotten about that pet turtle I purchased exactly 20 days ago and, as a result, had forgotten to feed it. I envisioned myself hurrying to its terrarium, finding it dead, and resurrecting it with a single scrap of wet lettuce and a few magic words. But when I found it dead, placed that scrap of wet lettuce before its tiny mouth, and said the incantation from my imagination, nothing happened. The turtle was dead. But then I picked it up and thought it might make a good action figure of sorts, so I ran a google search for information about how to perform reptile taxidermy at home. Then I woke up. Or, rather, I came to my senses, since I found myself standing over the computer staring at list of search results for "self taxidermy reptile".

As I made my way to the bathroom, though, I kept thinking that something about the dream seemed very real to me. At length, I convinced myself that I hadn't purchased a small turtle, but something about that damned turtle looked too familiar. No, it wasn't a Ninja Turtle, though I did consider that possibility. Then, in the shower, it hit me.

It was fucking Squirtle.

Ugh, I am exhausted.

I was planning to write another Scary-Crayon piece tonight -- I've been digging the every other day update thing -- but I didn't get back to the house until after 7 PM because I take two buses to get back from work and THE FUCKING FIRST BUS NEVER SHOWED UP. After waiting two hours for it -- two fucking hours! -- someone was nice enough to give me a ride to the next station, but of course by then I'd missed the bus I usually take and the next one as well, and the third bus was very late, so I ended up waiting another 30 minutes at the station for it to come. (You NYC folks don't know how lucky you are to have reliable public transportation.) When I finally walked through the door around 7:20 PM I was exhausted. Then suddenly it was 10:00 PM.

I fucking hate my life.

In other news, today I got my first piece of comment spam! Pretty funny stuff, I've gotta say. "You have done a very nice job with your website, I enjoy reading the various posts and opinions of your other visitors. I do Home finance..." HOW RELEVANT! Thanks for the entertainment, Mr. Refinance.

Last night I fired off a couple more cover letters and resumes, as well as a submission to one magazine and a few article proposals to another. And tonight, I submitted a short story to Flesh & Blood magazine. Let's hope the 24th time's a charm!

By the way, for those who thought the first paragraph of yesterday's post vaguely familiar, I was more/less channeling Illyria's words in "Underneath" ("Angel" Season 5, Episode 17). Here's the relevant excerpt:

It's too small. It's too small. I can't breathe. I can't live with these walls. I can't breathe. There's no room for anything real. ... I should gut you where you stand. You challenged me. There's not enough space to open my jaws. My face is not my face. I don't know what it will say.

Ja!

A few weeks ago, at the local Main Street Festival, I signed up to be on the mailing list for the Northern Prince George's County Republican Club (NPGCRC). Now you all know where I stand politically -- independent; I evaluate the issues as they come and side with no party, though I tend to be left-leaning -- but I thought it might be interesting to read the group's e-mails and perhaps, time permitting, drop in on meetings from time to time. Also, I had to make nice with the reps so they'd let me have my photo taken with the life-sized cardboard Bush, which they'd kind of hidden away because people were attacking it and threatening it with death!

Anyway, I only mention this because the latest e-mail from the group urges recipients to e-mail Mark Whitaker, Newsweek's editor, and request that he demand that the persons responsible for running the Guantanamo Bay Quran flushing story resign from their posts. "No other industry can cause so much damage and not have to pay legal consequences," it reads. "This is the least that American's [sic] can expect for an article that caused the death of 17 people and caused irreparable harm to the reputation of the U.S. around the globe." (more...)