duck-shaped pain


18 October 2002
Good sandwich vs. bad sandwich.

I went to pick my car up yesterday afternoon, and the woman who lied to me the other day on the phone apologized profusely about that and for being surly when she left a message on my answering machine on Wednesday. I was pleased, and the total cost of the repair was $50 less than the estimate, and that made me even happier. I may patronize them again, but I hope not to need any car repairs for a while.

I've been writing a short story lately, spurred by a sudden desire to have something published in the college literary magazine. I realize this is not a lofty goal, having been a judge for said magazine a few years back. (I got to judge poetry. There were a few good things in my batch, a lot of so-so stuff, and a few of the "I love him / I love him so / I love him so much / I'll never let him go" variety.) Still, despite the modest intent here, I'm finding the writing to be difficult. I started out strong, but am now stuck. Part of the problem is that I feel kind of ridiculous writing fiction. I have to freedom to make my characters do anything I want, but none of the choices I come up with sound right or plausible. I always imagine people in my past (fourth-grade teachers, exes, co-irkers) reading what I write and laughing their asses off (not in a good way, either) and this is also uninspiring. Combine all of this with the general hard-work-avoidance pattern I've been in lately, and I'm surprised I'm even writing this.

Lunch yesterday: prosciutto, roasted pepper, basil and mozzarello panino, accompanied by a salad and gnarled, crispy potato chips. Happy mouth!

Lunch today: hastily made ham sandwich on moldy bread with mustard. In the dim morning light, I failed to notice said mold. Ate sandwich, oblivious to mold. Realized what had just passed my lips the moment I tasted the mold. Nothing could cleanse my mouth of this taste, the taste of an oozing pile of old dank socks: not coffee, not string cheese, not beer, not mouthwash.

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