For months and months and months I've tried to get my shitty short stories published. They haven't been (because they're shitty, obviously). So, in an attempt to move some of them out into the world, I give you this. Surrealist fiction (which is what I want to call this) is not my wheelhouse, but it was sweet, sweet torture to write. Thank you for reading, as always!
On my last day in Boston, it rained like the whole state of Massachusetts was sad to see me go. There were great bolts of lightening, overflowing drains, and mini flash floods. It didn't stop until I left. Now, I know weather patterns are in no way influenced by a a human being coming or going from a specific geographical location, but just let me have this one.
Life has been pretty rough for me as of late. I’ve been through the wringer, and I’m just trying to keep my shit together long enough to grow as a person. Thank God for poetry, even if this poetry isn’t any good.
It's been a few days since I have written about anything, really. It's not my fault. I'm depressed, even more so since I left Boston. Everything about the trip was perfect, but few days will hold a candle to my trip into the city. Seriously, Boston, keep it up.
Like most great adventures, days start to blur together. Wednesday was one of those sleepy days that all vacations have. It's the middle of the trip and you're trying to decide if you can take one more step or if you're going to dime for the personal driver you've always wanted and deserved. The pesky business of money is all that stops you.
Boston is on fire. I mean, not in the literal sense, but in that "holy-shit-is-this-an-oven" sort of way. Before I got here, Harriet warned me that it might be a little cool. Foolishly, I packed a sweater. I did not need a sweater.
This is my Summer of Yes. After spending so many years worrying about what other people think and being overly practical, I'm finally doing whatever seems fun an enriching. So, three weeks ago, I bought a plane ticket to visit my best friend in Boston where she has been working on her thesis for the last 1000 years. And a plane ticket under $200? How could I say no to kismet?
With so much time on my hands these days, I reflect a lot. A year ago, I met a young girl who was on the verge of tears every time I saw her. She suffered from intense anxiety, but made herself come to the summer camp where I worked every day for two weeks because she loved writing so much. She was, and continues to be, an inspiration.
After 6 months of hand-wringing, my thesis adviser finally finished my draft. And guess what? It was as bad as I thought it was going to be.