YOU CAN'T MAKE THE HORSES DRINK.
It just takes one person. One "right" person to see/hear/experience one piece of my work. A poem, a photograph, a Twitter comment. In lieu of that, it takes dozens of people, who then spread the word to dozens more people. The course I have failed, ultimately, is: How to Get People to Talk About You. I have tried just about everything there is.
I talk about this obsessively. I know. You're likely sick of it. I am. It is a puzzle I can't figure out. And it vexes me no end.
Doc is having a bad pain day. He's trying to sleep and I am trying to be silent. We're running out of cigarettes. This can't end well.
I am feeling like a huge weight has been taken off my back with the revelations re: Nigel's sperm donor this week. If not justice, I got justified. And that is kind of the same. I feel the same relief. Thank you to those who reined me in and shook my by the shoulders. I know not what I was thinking for that half hour. Scary that I even went to such a self-destructive place.
It's not a hundred degrees out and Chewy was laying out there panting. What is he going to do when real summer hits? Just not go out during daylight? Pussy. Just laying out there, not even running around.
I'm listening to poetic and inspiring music today. Reading, reading. So much reading to do. I still haven't talked to my webhost about this, I need to do that. Fuck. I'm so bad about talking to authority figures, even when they talk openly to me.
I can do anything I set my mind to.
I took pictures of the scars on my arms today. Once I resize them, I'm going to post them on Twitter in search of an experienced tattoo artist who works with old scar tissue to consult with. I don't want full sleeves, though I wouldn't mind decoration on my arms, like frolicking black cats with string, or some such nonsense. I just don't know if the ink would stay in the scar tissue. It's pretty thick. I get keloid scars, so I don't even know if a tattoo would be a good idea or if it would scar up really badly before healing a year later with splotches missing.
"You remind me of the babe . . ."