Every time I try to write this blog entry I get really sad.
Pony Club didn't hang my piece in their Satanic show. Later they said it had gotten wrinkled so they couldn't accept it. I ended up drinking too much at First Thursday and wandering the Goldsmith Building with strangers.
I didn't win the Ignatz, which is fine, really. I think I can write a better book, and I'd rather get an award for that one, when it happens.
Today is my birthday. My friends have all gone home, my apartment is a mess, my husband is in a suit on the carpet snoring. I had wonderful day, but I don't know how to insulate myself from birthday evening melancholy. The night of my 24th birthday I left the smeared prints of my poor lacerated arms all over the floor of my room. I doubt it will ever get that bad again but the shade of that overpowering gloom still visits me every year. I would go to bed and evade it, but I'm not a bit sleepy.
I could watch a movie but all my favorite movies are sad ones. Even the porn I like is sad porn.
Oh, why don't you go read the blog of somebody with some real problems.
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