Aside

Once I got past my "Oh my, this pulitzer winner whom I never met or have any ill feelings towards is sending me hate mail -- how cool is that?" a wave of sadness came over me. If winning those major prizes and receiving all those accolades isn't enough for this poet, there's nothing out there that will be. There is no person who can and no place to go to escape unflattering remarks or criticism. I don't even believe I made any unflattering remarks or criticism, yet he made a serious attempt to hurt me, bring me down, make sure I knew my place -- a stranger, a young poet, without a book, practically no influence, not even a tiny blip on most "poetry" radars. Seriously, by most folks' categorization (since I'm not employed by an outside company, the poetry, the journal bring in virtually no money -- under $100 for 2004) -- I'm a HOUSEWIFE. How am I threat that needs dealing with? How much pleasure can he derive from telling me to suck it?

Then I got to thinking about a few of my AOL acquaintances in the 90's, the ones who cashed in stock options worth millions of dollars -- retired by 30, big ugly McMansions, BMWs, amazing vacations, access to gals once deemed out-of-their-leagues. All the stupid shit most people dream of having. I lost touch with most of them but heard the endings to their tales. 2 million, 5 million, 10 . . . didn't matter, it never was enough. It wasn't even close.

Unhappy people are intent on being unhappy.

I'm much too touchy feely today. I need to hurry up and give birth so I can go back to my usual "fuck 'em up the ass" self. I miss the old mean me. I want her back. Desperately.