I hope you're looking at this cover the same way my dog does a piece of peppered turkey that's fallen out of my sandwich onto her paws. Trust me, I want you to read my words. Nothing makes me happier. I don't even want to know you read my words, I just know when people do. It's my motherly sense. I sit at work creasing people's brochures, and then my balls start to hurt, like when your girlfriend mounts you, but goes down your thighs too much and pushes them between your thighs. Stomach drops like change into a toll booth, but your face still says sensual, not ruptured testicle. My eyes water, mouth dries like field drought.
"Somebody's reading my blog/poems/someplace I've been published. Woah."
Everyone needs this feeling.
**
I've looked into a few graduate schools for Fall 2009. It scares me. I have some schools in mind, like the ones I would eat a glass smoothie to obtain an acceptance letter from their English department.
University of Louisville, Indiana University, other places.
**
Watch Game 3 of the World Series tonight. Evan Longoria and Chase Utley will thank you if you do. Heck, they might even thank you with a homerun, and that would just kick ass.
Fuck medication. This doctor understands that the food you put in your body is more important. And everyone always makes fun of me for not taking medication when I'm sick
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