I did something last week that some (most) would consider douche-y.
I'm not proud. I apologized. I thought, It's so not me.
But it was me.
And on a certain level I enjoyed it, because it felt gross and painful and honest.
I have no patience right now for the stable, the sane, the normal, the ordinary, for 8 hours of sleep a night and a well-balanced breakfast, for the perfect manicure or tights without holes or polite conversation or men with Careers or literary novels or good grammar or nice dinners.
Someone accused me of being an adrenaline junkie but I don't think that's it. I just want to live the bejeezus out of life, out of this city. I want to feel--love, sadness, disappointment, desire, anger--so deeply and truly that I almost can't stand it.
Then what, I dunno. There may not be a then.
Voicelessness and despair aside--snarky I know--it's been an insanely busy week. Last Thursday I had the pleasure of ushering with a g...
Ever wondered what it takes to get a piece of fiction published? I'm not talking New Yorker type of prose. That's a rarefied world ...
Check out my new video, a brief reading from a story published this past spring in Opossum.
Welp, after a half-year experiment in social media, BSP has returned to its blogger roots. I hated Faceborkland, tbh. Sure, it was easier t...