Nickfit & McClooneybin

Today, I sound like a carton-per-day, loose-neck-skinned grandmother from the backwoods. I'm probably wearing matching socks and t-shirt under my night shirt. Mr. Hicks - If you need some strong baritone in your chamber choir this year, lemme know. I can fly down for the spring concert if need be. I think what pushed me over the edge was the cigarette I smoked. Who says carcinogens are bad for people? It's like I'm supporting fine arts just by being alive. I'm a hero. ::hacking and gasping::

::throat clearing::

Last night I got to hang out with my writing losers Nick and John. It looks like we're the Final Three in what started out as a writers' group of six spazzes, and it has come to my attention that although this was our first meeting since September (stupid brain pain!), it was not the first time that everyone came with some writing to share EXCEPT FOR ME.

I've gotta get back to school and into a creative writing class before my brain cells die and fall out of my nose. I'm registering for summer and fall classes next week.

Nick, whom I think of as one crazy good motherfucker, read a performance piece about some wrestling match back in some time before I even pretended to like wrestling for the sake of getting into Gray's pants, and it was funny as hell, thanks to his typical crazy fucking delivery. But if I liked it, you might have thought that Gray was going to jizz all over the dining room because holy shit this nerd is talking about THE UNDERTAKER in my very own home and now I can die happy. Well played, Nick my man, and if Gray tries to cop a feel next time, it's all on you. Home-wrecking bastard.

Then there's John, who just published a collection of fiction on Amazon, and ya'll'd be fucking nuts not to go buy them for 99 cents a pop. You don't need any kind of E-reader to download them, just half a brain and a computer. John used to work with prosthetic limbs, so he could tell you a thing or two about the brilliance of your plans to play chicken with a train and your bad habit of eating too many Oreos (I'M LOOKING AT MY HUSBAND).

I'm a big fan of John's work. We took a writing class together last year and I remember him as one of a handful of people with real talent, at least as far as my vodka-sodden, concussed brain is concerned. He's a bit on the dark side, which is another reason his work is relatable for me. Three of these stories are short fiction and one is flash fiction, which meant it was almost physically painful to me when the story ended and I realized THAT WAS IT. No more. Nada.

When preparing to tell you losers about John's published stories, I asked him to dish some embarrassing (and thereby fascinating) things about himself. Apparently one of those things should have been that he's a perfect specimen and has never fucked up in a public manner, because this is how he responded:

Three embarrassing things about me:

1. It's been ten minutes of blinking cursor.
2. Hmmmm... apparently I have blocked out anything truly embarrassing.
3. Fuck, Cat, I don't know. Make up something about a nursing home, a pellet gun, and a plastic vat of Mississippi river water.

You can see why I love him so.