I sit here, feet propped up on the coffee table, studying my charred attempt at supper beside me on a plate.
I got rejected today.
Sadie knows. She keeps pawing at the hem of my melon shirt. Her hot breath on my leg makes me feel exhausted. It is summer inside. It is summer outside. It is summer in the noses and throats of lazy dogs who slumber all day and stay up pilfering through the trash all night. Sometimes, I wish I was a dog who could who could follow God floppily, "incorrectly," and unashamedly.
Then again, I am fickle with God. If Christ had a twitter, I would hit the "unfollow" button at least twice to three times a day. I am unfaithful that way.
I get so pissed at Him. I would be that passive aggressive "sub-tweeter".
I wonder what the NATIVE team said about me in the closed quarters of their eclectic loft. In their dynamic minds where art, technicolor graphics, gradient prints, semi-colons, and Nashville monuments lie,
I wonder what they really thought of me
(Beyond that I am unqualified).
It was a pretty dream.
I can think of at least 9 people who are laughing at my expense right now. Out of those 9, 7 are checking this post for errors, 2 are too self-conscious to be anything but forgiving, and 8 secretly wish I would choke.
You know, I have never wanted to be famous. I have only wanted to be heard.
I am not asking God for much (although my entitled flesh demands it).
It is not like I want to prostitute my work on the "Best Sellers" table of Barnes & Noble. I
simply want to publish little chapbooks with stamps, cursive gold letters, and whatever poetry I can
squeeze out of myself.
Sorry, this is not uplifting.
I used to be insanely romantic. Even my skin smelled like it was waiting to be worshiped...to be kissed...to be known intimately. I used to be the story. Now, I am the book. I am dusty with coffee-stained pages. Even I forget myself.
Yesterday, when I was shaving my legs for the first time since graduation I realized just how little I give a shit.
I wonder if it was my honesty that made them not choose me.
Maybe, it was because I brought up God in the interview.
I keep making the stupidest decisions based on the Lord.
Sometimes, I wonder if it is actually Him asking me to do these things
Because...
I just keep failing.
Perhaps it was the chunks of verbal vomit I kept wiping away from my mouth, chin, and neck.
He asked me to tell him about myself.
Perhaps, I am not thin enough.
Skinny writers are a funny thing. Most of the time they have a skinny voice. We are all starving in some way. It is a shame we cannot choose the way in which we starve.
My voice is portly,
Perhaps, I am too portly.
Anyway, I am unqualified.
I am piss poor poet with a haughty attitude and an insatiable desire to be "right".
He said he had a hard time choosing because there were so many amazing applicants.
On paper, the applicant with the psychology degree from a four-year private prison did not
sound appealing.
This is not my life.
I swear to God, I am someone else.
