Miss Hag.

You Fall Apart Again. . .

2008-01-23T17:14:00.000-05:00

de·ni·al [di-nahy-uhl] –noun

1. an assertion that something said, believed, alleged, etc., is false: Despite his denials, we knew he had taken the purse. The politician issued a denial of his opponent's charges.
2. refusal to believe a doctrine, theory, or the like.
3. disbelief in the existence or reality of a thing.
4. the refusal to satisfy a claim, request, desire, etc., or the refusal of a person making it.
5. refusal to recognize or acknowledge; a disowning or disavowal: the traitor's denial of his country; Peter's denial of Christ.
6. Law. refusal to acknowledge the validity of a claim, suit, or the like; a plea that denies allegations of fact in an adversary's plea: Although she sued for libel, he entered a general denial.
7. sacrifice of one's own wants or needs; self-denial.
8. Psychology. an unconscious defense mechanism used to reduce anxiety by denying thoughts, feelings, or facts that are consciously intolerable

Say two names to anyone who has been in a room with a television, computer or newspaper in the last year and you will certainly get some sort of reaction. Amy Winehouse and Britney Spears. "Train wreck." "Out of control." "Wild child."

I bring these examples up because I have found myself similarly distinguished in my own world. My m.o. for the past couple of years has been "The Girl Who Will Always Do One More Shot of Jameson Even When It Is Clearly Evident That She Doesn't Need Anymore."

For me, hanging out with the crowd that I run with, turning down another drink is never an option. Competitive drinking has become a way of life, and my competition is typically taller, bigger and younger than me. And male. That's right. I graduated from college ten years ago, but my liver has not.

I spend my Sundays playing beer pong. Twenty percent of my monthly income is spent on whiskey. My drinking partners have been Merchant Marines and West Point Cadets. I have found myself the only female at the after hours party that goes until it is full on morning. And wondering where the after after hours will be.

Now mind you, until recently, my rabblerousing has been great fodder for conversation. I have great stories about all nighters and fisticuffs. Ballyhoo. Mayhem.

People love to hear about my excessive behavior. Marvel at my Energize Bunny ability to keep on keeping on.

It seems though, that the party does indeed come to an end. And that end has come.

Everybody is worried about me. Suddenly. Something has changed.

I have reached the point in life when people are so concerned for me that they are no longer approaching me with compassionate concern; they are vigorously upset with me. Apparently, what once was fun and amusing is sincere cause for concern.

I have been lectured and scolded more times in the past few days then since I was a defiantly rebellious teenager. A friend called me because he received over a half dozen voice mail messages from different people inquiring about my well being.

People are talking.

"You need to do some serious self examination."

"You got yourself in this position. This is your fault."

"Do you really want to be this girl? Can't you see there is something wrong with you right now?"

"Most people go through what you are going through and learn a lesson and it seems you haven't been learning anything."

"Your friends need to have an intervention. I'm telling you this as a friend who cares." (Voiced in a manner that can only be described as "yelling.")

I get it. I'm not unconscious of who I am and what I do. I realize that I drink excessively and frequently and I am not blaming anyone for making me into this. It is part of who I am. I understand that it is not healthy and, now that I have reached a certain point (age) in my life, it's just not as cute. It may be, in fact, a little sad.

I understand that I have been making frivolous and irresponsible choices for the sake of enjoyment and pleasure. My decisions could be interpreted as juvenile. I'm not taking life seriously. I am being excessive in my unreality. I'm not taking personal responsibility.

The perception is that I have hit a place one might call "Rock Bottom." It is a place that I have visited enough times that I may as well have a time share there. It is the way I exist - plummeting to extreme depths and ascending pinnacle summits. I have often felt that my ability to achieve such extremes is not only a hallmark of my personality, but a reason for my existence. It is fuel for the inspiration that created these words that you are reading.

I know someday I will look back at these days and understand the purpose of this shit storm. There is a reason to this madness. I can only hope it will be clear to the rest of the world.

It seems that most people have given up on me and I hold no malice towards them for that. The last guest at the party needs to know when to say goodbye.

Everyone has their own problems and I am significantly better off than a lot of people. Perhaps I have taken that for granted.

I can offer no reason for why I have gotten here. Again. There is no valid rationalization for why I am toeing the line of appropriate intoxication. I can only apologize to anyone I have disappointed or caused concern. Perhaps I am not what everyone hopes/wants me to be, but I am not trying to plunge to the depths because I have given up. I am not a lost cause and I am not spiraling out of control.

That said, I can't help but wonder what changed.

When did Britney and Amy and all the other party girls out there become people to pity and fear for? When did I stop being someone who could party like no other and turn into someone who should not party ever? At all.

I often refer to Augusten Burroughs memoir, "Dry," in which he writes about how he thought he would go to rehab to learn how to drink like a normal person. He was promptly made to understand that he could never drink like a normal person. That some people just cannot do such a thing.

Although I know my way around a drink, I don't know if there is a simple formula for determining an alcoholic. If you ask a majority of people in my world right now, they will tell you that I am One Of Those That Cannot Drink. I wouldn't argue that I have exhibited behavior that is certainly worrisome, but I think there is more to it than a list of mistakes and behaviors. I don't think it's something that a person cannot change.

I don't know if this is true. I know that I shouldn't continue the way that I have. I also know that I do not always go off the deep end when I drink, but that I have chosen inappropriate times to go to that extreme. And that is my biggest regret from all of these recent events in my life. What I consider to be my private life is now cause for public concern. I cannot believe I am writing these words, but I think I understand a little what Britney and Ms. Winehouse must feel.

We all go through periods where darkness seems more distinguishing than light. We all have times when it seems we can do no right by anyone and when it seems the more we try to be happy, the unhappier we become or seem. I am not contesting any of that. I am not thrilled with where life is now.

But, I don't think my problem is one of substance, but of circumstance. I am putting myself in situations that aren't right. The drinking is a byproduct not a cause.

But, I also know that there is something to intoxication that can be enlightening and, dare I say, productive. That some of my best writing has come from the experiences of excess that someone like me is privy to access. I do not think I am a hopeless cause, but I do think I have a lot of work to do to regulate my life. To regain control of what I thought I had.

I do think I can drink like a normal person, but I don't think I should tempt fate for a while because it seems that I haven't been in the favor of the universe and I cannot afford for things the get much worse.

The end of the party is most certainly not the end of the living. And the end of the trying will never be the end of the failing, but the ride can be exquisite.

I Can't See. How Blind Can He Be?

2007-03-03T17:48:00.000-05:00

Day 60.365 - I Can't See. How Blind Can He Be?
Originally uploaded by Miss Hag.

Anjalee visited Mister g8s and I while we were bartending last Saturday. She commented to me that I looked so serious and sad in my Flickr photos which is basically the opposite of how I appear in reality.

At least, that is true for when I am working. I have read interviews with various pop performers in which they describe how they feel like they become someone else on stage. So much so that they have different names for their onstage personae. (Beyonce's is Sascha. Janet Jackson's is Strawberry or something) (I hate that I know these things.)

Click to read more. . .

To Know Him is To Love Him

2007-03-02T01:36:00.001-05:00

To Know Him is To Love Him
Originally uploaded by Miss Hag.

There is a Post-It on the wall by my desk that reads, "Give him a chance to miss you."
I am leaving Manhattan soon to go on a journey and I plan to miss this city while I am gone. I always do. It is the only place I have ever felt is my home.
Click above to read more . . .

Congratulations Amanda B.!

2007-02-22T20:11:00.000-05:00

Congratulations Amanda B.!
Originally uploaded by Miss Hag.

xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo to you, Miss Amanda!

Princess without a kingdom. . .

2007-02-18T17:13:00.000-05:00

There is nothing sadder than a princess without a kingdom. Most people think you need to have the latter before you can be considered the former. But, I politely disagree.

This city is my body.

2007-02-08T15:34:00.000-05:00

Day 36.365
Originally uploaded by Miss Hag.

I found an empty bottle of Laphroig Scotch outside the door to my building. Later that day, I read this ad on a subway platform -- "This city is my body. This body is the city."

What more can I say?

Almost

2007-02-06T00:43:00.000-05:00

My BFF is deft at playing cheesy, Diane Warrenesque R&B songs that perfectly fit whatever emotional dramas are encompassing my world at the time. Currently, his contribution to my aural reality is Tamia's "Almost."

Click on the above photo for a more detailed account of said melancholia.

I don't miss you at all.

I'm glad I didn't die before I met you. . .

2007-01-29T17:25:00.000-05:00

A friend recently gave me a copy of "Love is a Mixtape" by Rob Sheffield. . . you know when you're choosing the songs for a mixtape, how you listen for that lyric that is almost like a note to that person? Like, "This is it. This is why I picked this song? Get it?"

Click here to read more. . .

Day 26.365 - I'm glad I didn't die before I met you. . .
Originally uploaded by Miss Hag.

godspeed, baby. . .

2007-01-15T09:40:00.000-05:00

you still reading this?

2007-01-03T06:36:00.000-05:00

I am 5'1" and I weigh 112 pounds. This is the smallest I have been since...shit...I don't even know. High school? Junior high?

I lost a solid 50 pounds in just over a year. For real. Without TrimSpa or crystal meth or vomiting. Just by burning more than I consume. And I consume a lot of whiskey.

People's reactions vary. Some people are genuinely excited for me. Most people say something like, "Well, you were always beautiful. Now? Well. Shit. I can't even explain it."

Some people try to feed me. "Eat a sandwich, girl."

They don't know.

Red Hot gave me an award for 2006 Sexiest Blog and while I appreciate that, I feel as though I really don't deserve it. I've posted, like, 5 times in the past year. I am not bringing the sexy back here, that's for sure.

This is the year that I become the world shortest supermodel. Supermodels don't blog. We Flickr.

Please, if you really want to know what's up with me, and I love you so fucking much if you do, come see me here. It's a party over there.

This space will self-destruct periodically.

Hot Lips, My Ass

2006-12-07T13:58:00.000-05:00

One of you nominated me for a Reddie Award for Red Hot Lips 2006.

You got me into this...now go vote.

There are some fine young men in Manhattan that might agree with this title. Tee-hee.

my name is not susan.

2006-11-20T22:43:00.000-05:00

Or Luka.

But, I do live on the second floor. . .

For all the naysayers, I am pleased to announce that I have still not had a drop of liquor since my decision to give my liver a one month break. The other thing? Yeah. Well. I tried.
My boss (otherwise known on these Internets as "the hot owner of Gstaad) said to me, "Could you do us a favor and not tell the customers that you're not having sex for a month? We don't sell liquor here. We sell dreams."

Well, I have dreams too. Ain't nothin' wrong with that. Anyway, let's focus on the big picture here. I haven't had a drink in almost three weeks. This is big. I work around liquor. I live a lifestyle fueled by the drink. I am one to be intoxicated. I'm through the Lookingglass! That's what grownups in New York do. We meet over drinks and tell stories. It's primal.

I've still been going out until 7 in the morning, mind you. I just drink a club soda instead and listen more than talk.

However, some would call my victory Pyrrhic. I haven't had a drink, but I haven't been completely sober. One of my favorite barflys commented to me, "There is something so bourgeoisie about abstinence." I agree. Give me muddled perception. The world is too much with us late and soon.

So, in this voluntary dry spell, I have. . .gulp. . .yes. . .started smoking again. If anything, it gets me out of the bar for a bit and away from my drunk friends. Drunk people, by the way, aren't nearly as interesting when you are stone cold sober.

Let's stay focused on the big pic, though. Some good has come of this. I felt as though I should come forth with this info, because I have a new favorite thing to do. One of my lovely windows opens up to a fire escape. At any given moment, you may see me in boxer shorts and a pink rabbit fur coat, sitting in my window and smoking an American Spirit menthol. Thinking.

My apartment is directly above the gaudiest orange and yellow burger joint you can picture in your mind's eye. It's called "Lucky's Famous Burgers" where they claim to have the best burgers in the galaxy. At night, I am underlit by the warm glow of the saffron lights of Lucky's. I gaze at the tops of people heads as the bop along to their individual rhythms. My find is full of poetry.

I hate to admit it, but I secretly hope to be serenaded by someone from below. Maybe even a Lloyd Dobbler boombox homage, but instead of Peter Gabriel, he will play Otis Redding.

Which brings me to the wagon that I didn't stay on.

I told my friend, Drew, that I felt that I was being distracted by artificial satisfaction which is why I am taking a break. He nodded and said, "Yup. Booze and boys."

Booze and boys indeed. I love boys. I love the way the smell. The way they move. The way they are distant and close at the same time. They are maddening and addictive. And I choose all the wrong ones because they destroy me and make me want more.

I disagree politely with Carmen McCrae. My romance does need a dance to a constantly surprising refrain.

Cute Doesn't Cut It At All

2006-11-03T01:07:00.000-05:00

Marisol (Cute doesn't cut it in this city.)
Originally uploaded by misterg8s.

(fyi: g8s is my favorite photographer in the universe.)

I have a problem.

Remember in high school when your hormones were raging and all you thought about was sex and you got these insanely obsessive crushes? Well, imagine the same ridiculous behavior, only now you are 30 not 13.

It's not nearly as cute.

I think about sex all the time. All. The. Time. It's a problem.

Recently, g8s and I went to see Dennis in Indiana. He took us to Metropolis, a lovely gay bar in Indianapolis with various levels, one of which led to a sex shop full of the usual fare: dildos and lubricants and butt plugs. Oh my! It was lovely fun for Miss Hag. Standing around with a cocktail, examining sex toys and talking shop with the cute boys working the counter.

As we regaled the staff with the story of my first experience with poppers, I realized that I needed to tell Dennis my fear. He would know what to do.

Clone-A-Willy
Originally uploaded by Miss Hag.

I told him that I thought perhaps I have a problem. I have been officially single for six months now and I haven't actually gone on a date. I have had lots of sex with quite a few lovely lads, but no one has actually bought me a dinner I didn't feel like eating or taken me to a movie I didn't really want to see.

I'm not dating; I have friends that I have sex with once in a while. I don't know much about them and none of them know very much about me. I've only let one sleep in my bed with me and that's only because he smells so damn good. I do, however, have fantasies about building a fort of men and crawling inside so I can be surrounded by boys. I imagine it to be a peaceful and lovely place. My man fort.

"That's fine, sweetheart."

"It is? "

"Of course! Honey. Listen. I love you. Absolutely. But, what you and I have is only one strand of DNA away from real romantic love because I don't put my penis in you."

(Seriously. This is how we talk.)

"Besides, " Dennis continued, "If you meet a guy and fuck him and you don't enjoy it, then you'll probably not enjoy eating Pad Thai with him either, so why bother pursuing it any further? You know it won't go anywhere if he doesn't satisfy you. That's just the way we are. Accept it."

"Well, I might just give him one more chance, but that's it."

"That's the difference between you and I, baby. Anyway, what are you worried about? You're young. You're beautiful. And you're single for the first time in seven years. You're having fun right?"

Yes. I am. Having fun, that is.

Purple Rain
Originally uploaded by Miss Hag.

But, today, I spent the greater part of the morning at the free clinic pondering my sex life. (Sex is all they talk about there. Really.) After getting a clean bill of health from a wonderful doctor named Tom, we sat and chatted for a while.

"I feel like every time I come here it's like coming to confession."

Tom chuckled. "Look, I don't judge anyone that comes through here. You're making choices for yourself. You are an intelligent woman. You aren't stupid even if you think you make foolish decisions once in a while."

"That's true."

"But, the way I see it, there are certain things you can control. The things you do that bring you here are actions you have some control over."

"Yeah."

"So, why not make things simpler in the now so they don't get complicated in the future? You know?"

I took Tom's advice and I walked home. It was dreary when I left my apartment, but by midday the sun chose to make an appearance, enlivening the meager foliage of Manhattan. My favorite season is almost over and I'm facing my first winter alone. And, in the spirit of my singularity, I have decided to keep it really simple for a while.

I'm challenging myself to not have sex or alcohol for a month. Just to see.

It's been 48 hours without a drop of drink and about 137 hours without sex.

Place your bets, kids.

Happy Halloween. . .

2006-11-01T17:09:00.000-05:00

Happy Halloween...
Originally uploaded by misterg8s.

From the hottest new Electroclash-emo-bluegrass band from Japan:
"Someone Stole My Casio."

I Love You, Dennis

2006-10-22T20:42:00.000-04:00

Dennis is on the short list of people I plan to love forever. On Friday I received this text message.

He's gone.

For the past few months, Dennis has been enduring something most people hope to avoid -- watching his father slowly deteriorate and pass away.

I received this text message while I was watching a dear friend's band perform. He had just dedicated a song to me and my Ex because the song was about a dear friend of ours who passed away earlier this year.

Halloween is coming. Last Halloween, my brother went into the hospital. He died three months later.

I have never been unaware of mortality. And yet, for some crazy reason, all I feel right now is grateful. And I'm not even a fucking optimist.

Hold on, D. I'm coming to hug you.

too intimate.

2006-10-13T17:54:00.000-04:00

The Ex recently experienced his first little break-up after our momentous break-up. In my very mature way, I let him vent his frustrations to me about her. It felt good to be a friend to a man I have loved for over half of my life. It didn't even hurt as I thought it might. I was pleasantly surprised at how unpainful it was for me to advise The Ex to learn how to keep things casual with girls. I told him to just have fun and get laid and enjoy being a young, single man.

However, I feel perhaps we might have reached a new level of intimacy that may or may not be a good thing. As we sat and had an early afternoon cocktail, The Ex turns to me and says, "It's a sad thing it's over with her, though. It's hard to find a girl who doesn't have a gag reflex."

To which, I could do nothing more than roll my eyes and sigh.

"When I Say Hello. . ."

2006-10-02T13:42:00.000-04:00

". . .it means bite my heart." -- Alex Lemon

One of the perks of my bizarre job is that I have a boss who encourages idiosyncracies. I have been trying out new personas at work; it's amazing how much a wig can change your personality.

I am so desperate for life to be different, but I am terrified of all this change. Perhaps, I think, I can hide from this fear if I pretend to be someone else. If only for a night.

Choose Your Own Adventure

2006-09-28T15:31:00.000-04:00

I read the end of the book first. I skip ahead chapters while watching DVDs of suspense movies. I don't enjoy surprises.

I read the end of the book first because the journey, to me, is more enjoyable if I know where it's going to end. That is not to say that I am not spontaneous. I would gladly go to the airport and jump on the first flight I could afford. Charge a pair of shoes without the finances to cover it.

I like to know how the story ends because it's easier to appreciate the details. You can revel in the subtle twists and turns of the road if you know where the sojourn leads you. Even if you know the car drives off a cliff at the end.

Perhaps it is only my heart that I do not choose to gamble with. Life is full of pain. If you know you can find a way to avoid some of the anguish, sidestep unforseen ambush, why not try? Or, if you know what will hurt is unavoidable, you can avoid the shock if not the injury.

I told The Ex today that if I knew, in the end, when I am slow and old and undesirable, that he would be there again, holding my hand. Then, none of this time would hurt as much. I could let it all go. None of this would matter. I would enjoy my singular bacchanalia even more. Ever the practicalist, he would not indulge my delusion.

Besides, I'm not sure my assesment is true. I'm not sure of anything anymore. And now, although I live dangerously, perhaps foolishly at times, it is not because I have the comfort of certitude. I don't take risks with my body and my life because I know the last chapter. But, if I'm going to some unknown destination and if I'm going it alone, I'm going there in flames.

File under: Risky Business, Suspense, Probability.

Meet Cherry.

2006-09-24T17:47:00.000-04:00

I have to hate you, she said. You know too much about me to be trusted.

69% of this is a cliche

2006-09-15T18:29:00.000-04:00

It is my understanding that all people in couples eventually find something that they want to change about their partners. I wish he'd do the dishes more often. I wish she would go down on me more often. Some change is more demanding: wishing for their most meaningful mate to look different, smell different, talk different. Be a different person. No matter the degree of reasonableness of the desired change, what becomes more important is how much the something is worth compromising for. How much the love is worth, in the end.

I wanted The Ex to change things that I shouldn't have asked for. And I wanted things to change for him in ways that he willingly wanted to change within himself. And he did the same for me. He wanted me to admit I could be in love, to soften my heart. To admit that I could want things that others willingly spend their lives seeking: commitment, partnership, comfort.

Eventually, sadly, we reached a point where we couldn't change our individual selves for the better for as long as we were together.

What's shocking to me is that I still expect him/things to change even after we have parted ways. I want him to be something he cannot/will not be even in the death of our relationship. We wanted to try to be friends post breakup, to prove the world wrong. You can love someone for over half of your life and part ways and still be friends. Maybe you can still even have sex. Occasionally.

But, I'm starting to doubt that can be. Because I still want him to be something that he simply cannot be. I want him to be the friend he cannot be. I want for me to be more open-minded and self-assured than I am.

I want things to change and not hurt so damn much.

I am sad that whatever it is I want or need will probably never be. I am sad because despite my years of outward cynicism, I always wanted to believe and that's what stopped me from being a bitter folk singer in a coffehouse. Or a hermit in a log cabin in the woods.

And I'm sad because I just don't believe anymore.

Autumn in New York . . .

2006-09-12T10:51:00.000-04:00

. . .is often mingled with pain.

One day, at the Loaf, I went to the bookstore.

There, I encountered my friend, Adam, in the process of a wonderful project. He wanted to make a harmonica holder out of found objects in the bookstore -- pencils, binder clips, shelf brackets. In that moment, I dubbed my adroit friend, Harmonicaguyver.

Recently, he posted this lovely essay on his site about that sense of loss and emptiness one experiences when a good thing ends. I'm missing a lot of things right now, not the least of which is my mind.

Summer is over. The weather is cooling and everywhere I look people are binding themselves together like molecules. My best friend reminded me the other night that Autumn is my favorite season, a time of year when I thrive. And he is right. In undergrad, every fall I got a 4.0. I am great at fashionable layering. "I'll dispose of my rose-colored chattels and prepare for my share of adventures and battles." Billie sang that for me.

People who love fall are masochists because it's a season that is as much about beginnings as ends. It's a time when change creates great things and hurts like hell. And we revel in it.

File under: Bread Loaf, Autumn, Harmonica.

.0001% of my future is certain

2006-09-02T20:46:00.000-04:00

I read a story about a lesbian woman who went on foreign study and had an intimate relationship with a straight man. Others who read the story expressed confusion about the logistics of such a relationship. "But she's gay!" they insisted. "She can't do that!"

A particularly wise woman made a comment that clarified an issue which has caused me some heartache. She said, "It's very possible to have an intense moment of passion with someone while still affirming the opposite emotion."

She meant, naturally, that kissing a boy would not un-gay this lesbian woman. If anything, because she felt relatively unmoved by the act, it only offered further proof that she is, in fact, homosexual.

Recently, I have ventured into the world of casual sex and found it to be anything but. It can actually be quite stressful, or at least the obtaining of it can be. Sex is a fantastic and exciting thing. It's wonderful to get to know a new body. Engaging the senses to consume someone previously unknown. Living a life without passion, one might as well be dead.

And yet, the further the territory I choose to explore, the more I am sure of what I know is my home. I only hope, when we get to the end of this road, that he will still feel the same about me.

49% of my heart is broken

2006-08-29T13:37:00.000-04:00

Conversations With The Ex:
In Which We Discuss Each Other's Respective Sex Lives With New Partners

Polemic --
Ex to Miss Hag: "I know you are having sex because you can't be near someone you are attracted to without trying to have sex with them."
(Note: The machine picked "Sexy," as in what I am bringing back.)

I've returned from the Loaf, drunk on Inspiration's orgiastic intoxication. Only to learn that The Ex now has a sex life that includes other people. As do I. We are making ballsy attempts to keep open lines of conversation throughout this new phase of our relationship. Talk about verbal landmines.

Polemic #2 (A Metaphor) --
Ex to Miss Hag:"Don't be afraid, baby. Relationships are like cable connections, transference of information between two people separated by distance. What we have with other people? Dial-up. What you and I have? Broadband."

Denouement --
Those of us familiar with self-destructive behavior will note that the problem is not just wanting what feels good and also what feels bad. The problem is also not discerning the difference.

85% of this blog is true

2006-08-25T13:51:00.000-04:00

If Robert Frost were alive today, making reality television shows, it would be called Bread Loaf Writers' Conference.

For two weeks, I have been living amongst writers. New writers, established writers, famous writers, people who publish/edit/promote writers. Everywhere you turn on this mountain, people are having conversations about literature. Fiction, Poetry, NonFiction, NonPoetry. Clever contests abound, clustered into ochre colored buildings in the Vermont evergreens. We try to outwit each other, fondle each other's minds.

What interests me is the fact that these are people who write stories. Even the nonfiction people are weaving tales. Someone said to me last night, "We are a seekers of truth in a colony of liars."

It makes me understand how much my own persona is a product of my own creation. I am a woman who can survive on 2 hours of sleep a night and still manage to live as hard as possible.

And yet I am not.

good to know.

2006-08-23T14:36:00.000-04:00

I've been learning so much at this conference, I will not be able to process all of it until I come back to the real world. I mean "real world" so unironically.

Anyway, to my emigos y emigas, new and important information was brought to my attention by a wonderful woman I met here. She is a fantastic poet and literary consultant, and perhaps some/all/a few/most/none of you know what I am about to share. I did not know and it will certainly be informing a planned format change to this site.

Anything you publish on your blog, unless sufficiently revised to be an obviously original and new piece, will not be published in print because it is already accessible to the public online. Even if you remove it now, it has been out there and will not be something that a print establishment will want to use since it is not new to the public. Why would they pay for something that you are giving for free?

To that end, you will be seeing this phrase at the end of all my posts. "Interested in learning more? Look out for more in the ____ issue of ______ magazine/literary journal/newspaper."

That last line mostly untrue.