…And I was having a good day to. Screw the em dash and all the dashes i will put them in hell with an inferno like dante so people can laugh at all his enemies for CENTURIES
YOU UYOU YOU
-you are now a character- –in a short story i will write. soon lol —- — – —— –
Reply all| Delete Junk| Your process essay FL Fred Lux Reply all| Yesterday, 2:10 PM Stacy Hill Inbox You replied on 2/15/2017 2:27 PM. Action Items Hello Stacy, I finally read the draft of your process essay. As usual, your writing takes me into unexpected places, and often works within realms I cannot quite fathom. I do not say that to mean that it should be different, only that I may not be the best reader of your work, for I do not always even know how I feel when reading your writing. This piece, in particular, feels like the monologue of a little girl who jumps all around (and why not?) but it is unclear where the piece is headed. In fact the draft literally ends mid-sentence at the bottom of page 3: "...measured out in " Out in what? I am curious what "the hims" are. I am curious about the sailboat forms described on page 3. (By the way, use a dash — instead of a hyphen - on each side of "Keelboat form." I make a dash on my computer by pressing shift+option+the hyphen key.) I am not sure what to say about ways to revise what is here. Why should I care what a little girl has to say or think? It feels random. I have a hard time relating to little girls. And yet, clearly, many humans love thinking about childhood, who they are, what power they have, and how it affects our lives. What does writing from the perspective of this “paranoid” girl do for you? What does it allow you to explore? In what ways might it obscure things you could say more directly? These are the questions that come up for me when I am reading this piece. I want to understand it better than I do, but I need the piece itself to offer something of itself to me, to reach out. So far in my life, I have not really felt that little girls care much about me. This girl, too. I want to care about what this being says, but cannot find an entrance place, a way in, yet. Hope my comments stir up something valuable for you. Please know that you are free to ignore all that I say and write what you want. I am just trying to be honest, and also trying to say to you that I want to connect to your writing more than I do in this piece. At least as it is so far. I look forward to how you revise it.
One thing they (the schools, teachers, my pastor) always say is “Don’t do drugs!”
But I was just thinking today (and yesterday) about how all of my mom’s friends always try to tell me about Wellbutrin, Prozac, Zoloft, Ambien, and Abilify. These fancy assholes keep showing up at our doorstep with tidings and cheer (I mean drugged drooly smiles plastered on they’re faces with fake FAKE drugs).
They show up and come in shaking off the snow and so fucking smelling good and they took a shower that morning and didn’t read the news about refugees or didn’t think about how America is Screwed BECAUSE THEY WERE SO FUCKING HIGH FROM THE AMBIEN last night and the few other stuff they popped right that morning.
I fucking hate when you get in my face and my mom’s face and say oh Monica you should up your dose or call this doctor and STAAAACY why don’t you try Wellbutrin.
“You look so sad.”
“Why aren’t you singing along with the Christmas carals with us?”
“Don’t pinch me.”
You stupid high idiots I’m sorry, I know some people need it and I probably (no definitely) need it too but I refuse you. No, thank you. No, screw yourself. Please stop showing up at our door with false tidings of drugs and I hope you choke on a holly grove or whatever you people eat or suction down without taste buds from the side effects.
Shower me with Prozac chump trump my poem is now