I feel worse eating the pretty eggs from the farmer’s market. Those chickens in factory farms are de-beaked and so drugged up that they don’t even realize they’re laying eggs. Meanwhile, these little guys are the product of a chicken that was hugged by a child in Fredericksburg. Maybe that chicken started thinking something better would come of her eggs, like they’d hatch and become presidents or at least moderately successful in business.
My bedroom is now a cat-free zone. The bed is no longer a spot for all-day naps and Turk can’t make it to third base with the laundry rack anymore. The apartment is weird and small with one door closed and it makes me think about how much a familiar space becomes a part of you. Try moving a chair from one side of your room to the other. Things get weird.
Anyway, I’m sleeping with earplugs now because the cats scratch at the door all night, but I think this is an important part of Becoming a Functional Adult. My allergist, if I could afford an allergist, would be proud.
If you like poetry, you should check out Nick Courtright’s Elegy for the Builder’s Wife, online via Blue Hour Press. If you don’t like poetry, screw you, get out of here.
I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that.
I found a venue for my Dzanc Day workshop. Proceeds go to bring creative writing programs to kids in need. If you’re in the area and you’d like to eat nilla wafers and rap flash fiction with me for four hours, check it out.
Tonight I’m reading some Salinger at the Ransom Center along with ZZ Packer, Betsy Crane, AE Ward, Nick Flynn, and John Pipkin. I hope this one is as illuminating as the David Foster Wallace show. I’m into this reading-party thing.
Listen. At the end of the day, an omelet’s just an omelet.
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