So this past week, two big things happened. First, the radio stations exploded into an unwelcome cacophony of new Christmas music. I mean, I have nothing against new music or against Christmas, but to introduce me to these songs for the space of two weeks before brutally culling them seems cruel. Morally abandoned, even. Like delicate poinsettias, those hothouse Christmas songs don't stand a chance in the cold, incipient January.
The other thing was an acne outbreak. I'm approaching thirty and I still have fairly serious acne. The reason for this is that, for reasons baffling to science and magic alike, I am incapable of processing milk and milk products, including milk chocolate.
I fucking love milk chocolate.
There is no way I'm giving up milk chocolate in the name of beautiful, clear skin that I might - might - get to enjoy for another whole ten years. What would I nosh on without chocolate? Cabbage leaves? Carrots? No. These will not yield the sweet, savory satisfaction, the creamy ecstasy, the mood-soothing magic of the humble yet vauntable chocolate. Upon my honor as an American, as a free woman, as a writer possessed with the emotional intensity of a million suns, I will not relent! May pustules cover my entire face before I relinquish the delectable chocolate pretzels!
Thus, by way of my very own internally generated idiocy, am I regularly mistaken for a sixteen year old boy.
Other stuff happened too. First, my beautiful and talented girlfriend gained admittance to a university of fine repute whose graduate credentials will catapult her to well-deserved greatness! Hooray, my lady! Hooray! Hooray!
Also, I write for this fantastic indie book review magazine, Foreword Reviews. Turns out, they have a quarterly paper edition. Neat! Turns out they also featured my review of the excellent and hilarious Brittle Star by Rod Val Moore in a spotlight. Double neat!
A word about Moore. This guy has some serious talent and deserves attention, because the next thing you know, he'll be teaching your workshop on incorporated satire and you'll find yourself wondering how you never got the man's autograph before he turned into a writer's writer and all that. (Gosh do I wish he had a blog.) I've never read his other book, Igloo Among Palms, but it's high on my list, as is the upcoming Juniper Prize-winning History of Hands. Go read him!
But to conclude, here's some of my other review stuff. Some of it is wonderful, some of it is fabulous, all of it is 100% Product of Anna. I am a veritable fountain of, well, criticism.
God help me when I finally publish something of my own.
No comments:
Post a Comment