phlegm factory

My new title is Phlegm Factory.

Just when I thought I had turned the corner on this cold, it caught up with me during a few sleepless nights. And now I am snotoriffic.

The writing workshop on Tuesday night was a lot of fun. I wrote three pieces I shared with the MSG later, despite their roughness, and I think he liked them. They were at least fun to write, because the instructor has some good prompts, and it’s a relaxed atmosphere. The other participants are good, so I feel sufficiently challenged and motivated.

I do not, however, feel great about taking the 5 Fulton to get there. Within 40 minutes I had my fill of one (1) screaming baby, one (1) portly gentleman’s genitals mere inches from my face, one (1) twentysomething alternarocker rolling his eyes every single time anyone around him did anything at all, and one (1) woman hauling back and decking her paramour in the face.

Conversely, the 31 Balboa is my new favorite bus. I spent 30 minutes yesterday listening to a woman on her mobile who was recounting the tale of attending the funeral of her ex-lover who had been engaged to another woman during the affair. I sat, enthralled, as she talked at length in casual tones about many private details, total strangers within earshot.

How lucky I am to be a writer in this mobile-heavy America! People no longer hide in their homes to have private conversations, and so I have buses full of material for short stories. Every day.

The MSG made me dinner last night. Beets. And other things. And beets! Good thing he is so nice to me; because of our trip in August, we’ll miss the TMBG concert. Hrf. Their new album, “The Spine”, comes out on 13 July. Mark your calendars!

Time for tapas!

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I acknowledge that I live and work on stolen Cowlitz, Clackamas, Atfalati, and Kalapuya land.
I give respect and reverence to those who came before me.