I’m not one of these fruity people who considers herself a doe-eyed, softhearted romantic. I can appreciate romance, for sure, but that’s only if you understand the word “appreciate” to mean “roll my eyes toward the back of my head while bearing witness to romantic things happening to someone other than myself.” Which always seems to be the goddamned case, because I never fuck anyone with any goddamned imagination. Actually breaking my brain in trying to think of an over-the-top romantic gesture I have been on the receiving end of. Drawing a total blank.
Unless you work in Hollywood, it’s unlikely you give much thought to which production studio produces the movies you most enjoy, and if I asked you to name a handful of them, chances are your answers would be limited to the big guys: Universal, Paramount, Sony, et al. If I asked you to name an independent studio, however, things get a little more difficult.
My day starts at 5:14 am.
My body’s clock is synced with my six-month-old daughter’s, so I know I have around forty-five minutes before she’s awake and sitting up in her crib babbling. In those forty-five minutes of freedom, I do the usual just awake shuffle: piss, turn on the coffee pot, take out the dog, smoke, take my middle-aged man medicine, pour coffee, and sit down and read.
1. an establishment that provides lodging and usually meals, entertainment, and various personal services for the public
1. a person appointed and authorized to examine accounts and accounting records
2. a hearer; listener
While in the middle of haggling prices, the potential guest steps forward and says, “Look, do you know who I am?”
potty training a white male is pretty much an endless stream of urine into my face because men are useless, especially smol bb birb ones. my young blood, Iggy, is about to turn three. everyday my brain explodes with amazement at how much he is learning and the things he says are much wow and I marvel at his existence but he still cannot wipe his own ass. he isn't even close to wiping his own ass. not even once in his life has he attempted to wipe his own ass.
here's the scene:
Closing King's 1978 collection Night Shift, "The Woman in The Room" is one of those very special stories that do it, that make you nod your head, Yes, that is the way of it, that is exactly right, exactly rendered...knowledge I've sought has now been given to me, knowledge I possessed has now been affirmed.
When a story merits that response, I deem it literature, uppercase "L." That astute man of letters Cyril Connolly, wrote, "Literature is the art of writing something that will be read twice."
And should be.
And needs to be.