Samantha was my undergraduate roommate, and as you can see, she not only survived the experience, but reasoned that if she could backgammon with a precocious spastic and a homosexual tag mate, then she could live in LA. I can see mouths agape with wonder here.
Ms. Kline found me online first and wrote hurriedly that "she'd never bother me again," in that arduous sensibility we retain that we're wrong, somehow to reach back to the past. I did not mind that she found me so much as I minded that I shelved her memory away as an inconvenience, though having taken a couple of years, I am a bit softer.
While her journey with the hope that men found her sensual tarried on in the bedroom, I typed in the living room. This is the ongoing formation of my epitaph. Spastic typed.
Somewhat annoyed with myself for putting Jayne Anne Phillips up here while I am over here (as she and I are only so far apart economically; I have produced, but this is not the same thing as succeeding with the MFA system), I would not submit to a project like IDK, not today. Partly it is about brand. Kenyon still matters, and they almost almost accepted me. I would support them even if I never get the byline; up on my high horse, starving.
Samantha and I share in common that we remain instantly recognizable. Everyone from my high school class says "You're Joanne!" I stare back vacantly. Samantha got placed in a Goya poem.
Nevertheless, I am in a great deal of trouble, of the aging indigence variety.
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