Hard to believe...

that when I was younger I used to go to the Js on the bookshelf specifically to imagine how my book would look, between "Jakes" and "Jong" somewhere. (Somewhat unearned confidence, though I was always poetry prize girl and a "young author" putting together books with construction paper and all that jazz.) I don't worry about where my book would go anymore...it's been too much work getting space in other people's books without some kind of pratfall, like, most recently, my bio got in the anthology, but my essay didn't. Kind of argues against my status as Voice of A Generation(H/T Hannah Horvath)

Thought I was being *sensible* getting out of the bookstore without taking anything home but lemonade breath and cheesecake crumbs(Coconut...kind of interesting if you like coconut, which I do, kind of a lot, but not everyone does.) But I think my mother thinks I'm sad. (Which, okay, a little, but I didn't see anything I would be excited about for longer than the three days it would take to page through it the first time, which, if there's ever an experience I could actually claim to be jaded about, that's probably the one.) But the bad thing about letting someone hear your cry for help and Trying To Talk It Out and all those things at the end of the Very Special Episodes is that it better work, you know.(Even those characters bounce back pretty fast when you think about it,)
I have so much stuff in here right now, it's kind of nuts.