What do I have to say, anymore?
And why do I feel shame for not being edited enough, lyrical enough, relevant enough?
I'd like to write stories, short ones, maybe true. I'd like to invoke longing and clink the ice in my narrative glass with great finesse and subtlety. And to great applause, of course. But I don't have longing right now, and if I do (which I do) I hate myself for having it. And I'm no Don Draper; I've never had that metaphorical glass. I've always held on too tightly. And I've always chewed on my ice.
Hey, reader! If this was published, they'd tell you not to trust my narration, because the narrative character is unreliable. She mixes autobiography and memoir, kids. Sometimes even fiction. Occasionally tampers with poetry. She's not very fucking objective, in any case.
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