How am I going to talk to the girl next door…I can say: I was so wasted the other night, I could barely speak—but it was so nice to talk to you, to learn a bit about you—it was the nicest birthday gift of all. It felt like God smiled on me; it felt like the clouds parted, and an angel floated down on a crepuscular moonbeam. Not just because she is a smiling, cheerful beauty; but because something happened. From out of the entropic chaos of the world; from out of the constant, impersonal movement of the city, a figure clarifies. Vibrations cohere and become corporeal. I want to learn more about her.
My Thanksgiving essay was rejected by APCON, and I will say that it feels terrible. That and not having a job have got me feeling very stressed. Worried. Failure.
Who else publishes weird little philosophy essays? Who can I send this to? Don’t let it go to waste—it needs to go somewhere—a proper literary journal—this is a good opportunity—but it’s low priority. The essay is bad, after all. I knew that when I submitted it. It’s good that it won’t be published in its current form, because it would be a stain on my record (not that spotless to begin with). Most of my portfolio does not hold up. Instead of worrying about this vain bullshit, I need to get a fucking job.