tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27570818899552325862024-02-18T20:32:25.268-08:00oh well i don't know, no one likes meHLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03608771403891098131noreply@blogger.comBlogger52125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2757081889955232586.post-68497251085645763202008-10-03T01:25:00.001-07:002008-10-03T01:25:57.279-07:00part 337.2 of a novel: evening juiceThe lump tends to wake up late and be in a rush in the mornings. It is doubtful she will have time for breakfast. In all fairness, she probably didn’t get enough sleep the night before, but to her fault she usually shuts off her alarm and goes back to bed. As a result, the carton of orange juice with about enough remaining for a half a glass, left out the previous night, and intended to be thrown out in the morning will probably not be thrown out until the evening when the lump arrives home from work and craves something fruity, nothing much, just a sip. These cravings of course will only be filled with disappointment as it is realized that the carton has been left out and the contents spoiled. And that is why she’ll take a sip of her roommate’s, the Smarmaloid’s, orange juice.HLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03608771403891098131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2757081889955232586.post-14453627043954565752008-10-03T01:24:00.000-07:002008-10-03T01:25:09.405-07:00part 337.1 of a novel: the lumpThere was a girl who I called the lump. She lived at 108 Hudson St. She did many things with her face. Sometimes her face grew a mouth and the mouth ate food. This is not uncommon for North American females in the post-millennial world. The lump’s face movements to create a mouth and consume food are not the reason why I have decided to make many efforts to ensure the face movements of other North American males in the post-millennial society are ignored and my face movements are her main priority. To clarify, the lump is the name I have given my present girlfriend.HLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03608771403891098131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2757081889955232586.post-40917485075923401072008-10-01T02:00:00.000-07:002008-10-01T02:01:04.882-07:00part 335.3 of a novel: smoking cigarettesI’ve never smoked a cigarette. Once I tried to light one for someone. We were walking up a hill. It was windy. I cupped my hands and held the cigarette in my hand and the match in my mouth. I refused to do it any other way and almost burned off my lips because of it, but even backwards and a failure it felt pretty good to strike that cupped hand posture and to this day I’m glad I didn’t have things reversed with the cigarette in my mouth and the match in my hand because I’d probably be addicted.HLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03608771403891098131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2757081889955232586.post-31428057143159298172008-10-01T01:29:00.000-07:002008-10-01T01:57:12.409-07:00part 335.2 of a novel: crumble's faceMy friend always has crumbs on his face. He doesn’t brush them off before he goes to bed. He feels like they keep him satisfied in the middle of the night. He says he’s less likely to feel restless and roll around and whatever. I don’t believe him. I think he’s afraid of brushing his teeth, but I don’t know. I guess it’s better than having stains—chocolate, tomato sauce, <a href="http://crazyjaneski.typepad.com/crazy_jane/2004/01/two_moustache_s.html#comment-132921915">milk mustache</a>, etc—on your face. A little crumble snack is more satisfying I suspect.HLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03608771403891098131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2757081889955232586.post-3903980353089755242008-10-01T01:20:00.000-07:002008-10-01T01:26:04.781-07:00part 335.1 of a novel: purple onion souppurple onion fruit- This is also the name of a band that became Ok Computer. Ok Computer is a band that plays radiohead songs on a karaoke machine, but instead of singing radiohead songs they read passages from Robert Heinlein. The passages are done to the rhythm of the music. It’s worth seeing a couple times. I saw them when they read the entire <a href="http://whileshenaps.typepad.com/whileshenaps/2006/10/patchwork_giraf_1.html#comment-132920743">Sending Giraffes to the Inter-Galactic Night at the Bowling Alley in Elephant Suits</a>. As purple onion fruit they mostly played Green Day and Ozzy covers. Their performance of “Mama, I’m coming home,” at the middle school talent show won them an honorable mention ribbon.HLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03608771403891098131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2757081889955232586.post-43254401533277021522008-09-30T01:00:00.000-07:002008-09-30T01:02:03.726-07:00part 334.2 of a novel: i got a phone callI got a phone call. I was standing on carpet, but I was in a phone booth. I was barefoot. It felt very odd to me. The person called me on my cell phone. I asked them if they could call the phone in the booth. They said they couldn’t. They doubted that phone even worked. I agreed with them. Then they said something that reminded me of a line from a famous novel that continues to remain unread at the bottom of my <a href="http://htmlgiant.com/?p=128#comment-21">bookshelf</a>.HLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03608771403891098131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2757081889955232586.post-69667961453388208932008-09-30T00:58:00.000-07:002008-09-30T00:59:54.641-07:00part 334.1 of a novel: my apathy was a reaction by my body to disguise the addition of illiteracy to my list of character flawsMy brain was shrinking. I’ve been doing experiments. Last week, I spent Tuesday looking at can of peas for the first three hours of my day. I almost missed work. I brought the can of peas with me. Somehow I did not eat them. Removing the label helped, but then I got curious what the dried, adhesive tasted like. I could really only taste aluminum. I gave a moment’s thought about swapping my shrinking brain for the contents of the can, but only managed to open the drawer where the can opener is kept and not actually take it out and wind it around my skull. I do not remember how Tuesday ended. There was no can of peas in the cabinets or at my office when I woke up Wednesday.HLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03608771403891098131noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2757081889955232586.post-23745725987418804232008-09-29T08:24:00.000-07:002008-09-29T08:25:56.879-07:00part 332.1 of a novel: city of bikesWhen I first moved to the city <a href="http://ashleymorris.typepad.com/ashley_morris_the_blog/2008/08/some-fucker-stole-my-bike.html#comment-132680765">I found all kinds of bikes</a>. “This city is great,” I thought, “People are always leaving bikes around for me to use, but then one day I went to unlock my bike from a stop sign and found someone had stolen the front wheel. I thought, “Well I guess I don’t have a bike anymore.” The next time I walked past the bike the back wheel was gone as well. Then the handlebars went and the bike seat. And I thought, “What’s the use of having a bike if by the end of the week all that’s left is the frame,” but I wasn’t sad. I kind of liked knowing I had a bike with no wheels and no steering wheel.HLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03608771403891098131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2757081889955232586.post-48592230914929313402008-09-26T00:04:00.000-07:002008-09-26T00:06:34.016-07:00part 328.1 of a novel: pocket lampsSeptember is a month that most people live in at least once. I have lived in September twenty-four times. I do not remember every single second I’ve lived in September. I know that at some point or another I’ve had things in my pocket during the month of September, but I can not remember what those things were. I thought, maybe I had a light bulb in my pocket once in September, but I checked various record keeping systems and it turns out I’ve only had <a href="http://www.friskbiskit.com/2007/12/light-bulb-joke.html#comment-132299474">a light bulb in my pocket in October</a> and <a href="http://www.swiss-miss.com/weblog/2008/06/whippy---the-pe.html#comment-132299802">April</a>. There are no records of what was in my pockets for September.HLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03608771403891098131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2757081889955232586.post-51765166489204231622008-09-25T07:17:00.000-07:002008-09-25T07:18:27.302-07:00part 327.2 of a novel: shallow endI thought of a pool party in the summer before high school and how some girls in my grade were kissing their sophomore boyfriends in the shallow end. I didn’t go swimming. I liked to do handstands in the shallow end, but was afraid I would have kicked the girls and their boyfriends in the head. Instead, I sat on a deck chair and just watched them. One of them saw me and called me a pervert.HLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03608771403891098131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2757081889955232586.post-38497928484092139212008-09-25T07:16:00.000-07:002008-09-25T07:17:13.920-07:00part 327.1 of a novel: daffodil shellsI used to cook eggs before the sun came up. The eggs were yellow and looked like soggy <a href="http://www.happiness-project.com/happiness_project/2007/09/this-saturday-a.html#comment-132169092">lawn furniture</a>. Daffodils sometimes shell their retarded offspring and people eat them and think they are eggs. Other animals sometimes try to shell their feeble-minded babies and sell them, but people rarely eat them. Humans sometimes put half bike shells on the heads of their mentally retarded children, but people don’t try to eat them. A long time after the sun set I was thinking of eggs and worrying that the ones I ate the morning before were retarded daffodils. I worried about the ones I would eat in a few hours too, before the sun came up again.HLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03608771403891098131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2757081889955232586.post-60605105933565268282008-09-25T00:31:00.000-07:002008-09-25T00:36:15.032-07:00part 326.1 of a novel: blurry day yeah 764I ate two noodles and a girl was in the clean sheets that I made. A metal tin filled with water after I gave it quarters. I gave it five quarters after I swiped a card and a larger woman than the one in my bed gave me ten dollars in quarters so I could put the dirty sheets in a metal tin and clean them. The girl in the clean sheets brought home two and a half noodles. She ate <a href="http://cruelestmonth.typepad.com/cruelestmonth/2007/06/an_interview_ta.html#comment-132145766">half a noodle</a> and I ate two noodles. She said, “I am full,” and picked at the wall next to the table because there was crud on them. Her bowl still had one percent of the half a noodle and I thought, “I will eat that one percent of the half noodle.” She put the crud from the wall in her bowl, but I ate the one percent of half a noodle anyway. She did not care for this, but then I told her about the clean sheets and she jumped in them and asked me if I loved her anymore. I was not done eating the two noodles, but I said, “Sure,” and ate the rest of the two noodles. Then I felt guilty because I had a dream about a girl smaller than her and made the sheets dirty.HLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03608771403891098131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2757081889955232586.post-18115487358212679642008-09-23T23:10:00.000-07:002008-09-23T23:11:25.573-07:00part 325.5 of a novel: bathmatFor twelve months I walked into the bathroom and either washed my hands in the hip level fishbowl or sat on the knee level fishbowl or climbed into the fishbowl for people who like to get clean lying down. Every time I walked in I thought, “I should get a bathmat.” I never did go get a bathmat.HLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03608771403891098131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2757081889955232586.post-68704005037815644902008-09-23T23:09:00.000-07:002008-09-23T23:10:40.322-07:00part 325.4 of a novel: baseball group of menThere is a baseball group of men and they have lots of big guys and some little guys and some guys you forget about until one of them says, “Hey one time in Little League they threw me the ball and I ran home with it and when I got home the phone was ringing so I picked up and it was the coach and he said, ‘Can you bring back the ball?’ So I did and then I went up to bat and hit the ball and ran around the bases and no one tagged me and that’s when I knew I would have a long future in this game and I stopped learning to read and my teacher didn’t care because I showed a lot of athletic promise and everyone knew that one day I would become something of a moderate professional on a baseball group of men.”HLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03608771403891098131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2757081889955232586.post-58314948404081840362008-09-23T23:07:00.000-07:002008-09-23T23:09:05.641-07:00part 325.3 of a novel: outside 7-11Sometimes there are people outside of 7-11 with Styrofoam cups and they say things like, “I know this guy with a Hitler mustache and a very tiny dick and I think he goes to my dentist because my dentist has this ring that looks like a swastika, but he never shows it to me when I ask and instead will say things like, ‘Now let’s talk about this gum problem you got.’ You see, I got this really bad gum problem. I think I need reconstructive surgery and I’d really appreciate if you could give me a few cents and help me out.” I always give six cents. When I leave I always make sure I have six cents to give to the people outside of 7-11.HLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03608771403891098131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2757081889955232586.post-15668058421613910032008-09-23T22:55:00.000-07:002008-09-23T23:02:22.275-07:00part 325.2 of a novel: crumpled picturesI have a pile of crumpled pictures in the corner behind the door. They sometimes unfold themselves and run around the apartment and eat things I want to eat in the morning. They unfold themselves and eat all the eggs and then run back to the corner and crumple themselves back up. <a href="http://angrychicken.typepad.com/angry_chicken/2008/09/a-whole-cloth-q.html#comment-131990810">I have not had eggs for breakfast in a month</a>. I go to the supermarket and buy a carton. I bring them home. I put them in the refrigerator. I brush and floss. I go to sleep. Crumpled pictures unfold themselves. I do not have eggs when I wake up. I am not mad at the crumpled pictures. They can not help themselves. They are mostly <a href="http://szarka.typepad.com/magpieknits/2006/05/the_peoples_fri.html#comment-131990920">blurry pictures </a>and old preschool photos.HLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03608771403891098131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2757081889955232586.post-15439297303598485102008-09-23T22:54:00.000-07:002008-09-23T22:55:23.067-07:00part 325.1 of a novel: front doorThe front door laughed. I told it I did not appreciate its mockery. My neighbor opened their door and asked if I would be quiet. I told them this matter didn’t concern them. My neighbor’s dog barked at me. My neighbor encouraged the dog to bark more. I went to grab the dog and kick it on one of the roofs across the street, but the door ran away. It ran into my neighbor’s apartment and barked. The front door laughed. I did not appreciate this. I drew a Hitler mustache and a very small penis on the door. The small penis was microscopic and was meant to be demeaning. The door did not appreciate this and said things about me and my character. It was clear it did not respect me. I thought, “Oh well.” I do not care much for respect. The door called my dentist and the next time I went in to get my teeth checked the dentist shook his head at me and said, “I heard about the small penis and the Hitler mustache.” I left without getting a checkup. I did not feel comfortable with this man’s hands in my mouth.HLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03608771403891098131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2757081889955232586.post-28574153002930515582008-09-22T12:10:00.000-07:002008-09-22T12:16:46.070-07:00Part 324.2 of a novel: Blurry Day Yeah 744<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0cRHdjb4XgZzBxFbmVJtBbJXwTxk1wWjvxzPqgVcO1yOW-s7yP5OPVYhG1gS4UMByCXDZtKFRDu_Ky9AAW9tnslCDlkt0HVhL_EcWq_Ai8koNvYW_mdvfzSYaPhFP34EQDTeRs-pBTKGi/s1600-h/EDY+324-09.19.07++%282%29.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0cRHdjb4XgZzBxFbmVJtBbJXwTxk1wWjvxzPqgVcO1yOW-s7yP5OPVYhG1gS4UMByCXDZtKFRDu_Ky9AAW9tnslCDlkt0HVhL_EcWq_Ai8koNvYW_mdvfzSYaPhFP34EQDTeRs-pBTKGi/s400/EDY+324-09.19.07++%282%29.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5248926681845450994" border="0" /></a>I looked at the bed sheets for a long time and everything felt perfect in the world. My bed did not feel pain in its forehead from the bed sheets. I was happy about this. Sometimes beds will be young and freshly harvested or enslaved and feel pain about their new location in the world and their reliance on bed sheets. It is a cultural thing. It is not cultural shock. The editing process destroyed this term from all my writing. I have snuck this one by them though. It is not culture shock. They will only allow me to say my work is not culture shock. If I say it is culture shock then they will not accept it so I have to live with my work not being culture shocked. This is a very difficult thing to live with. I sometimes think, “Oh, fuck. There goes the neighborhood. My writing will suffer. I shouldn’t have moved into this house. My writing is naïve and doesn’t understand basic things, but its demise was not culture shock.” There is not culture shock in the barn.HLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03608771403891098131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2757081889955232586.post-22452973959439683662008-09-22T11:38:00.000-07:002008-09-22T12:09:18.865-07:00Part 324.1 of a novel: hot dog standI saw a girl go to the back of the hot dog stand and I followed her, but when I got back there she was not there and all I found was the girl who worked the hot dog stand. This confused me. The one girl who went to the back of the hot dog stand did not look like the girl who worked the hot dog stand. <a href="http://futility.typepad.com/futility/2008/09/christopher-hitchens-calls-obama-dusky.html#comment-131758284">The hot dog stand was very small</a>. I do not know how anyone could disappear behind it. The girl who worked the hot dog stand asked what I was doing. I did not know. I pretended I was conducting interviews. She seemed interested. I asked her if she was interested in getting conducted for an interview. She said she would. I asked her questions. I did not record any of her answers. I said, “How many times have you put a hot dog in a bun and sneezed?” I don’t remember what she said. She asked me at one point if I was going to write down any of her answers or record them. I told her I remembered everything she said. She seemed skeptical. I took a step back. And then another. I took a third step and then I was running away.HLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03608771403891098131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2757081889955232586.post-26174028681394112502008-09-18T15:34:00.001-07:002008-09-18T15:38:03.760-07:00part 323.2 of a novel: Blurry Day Yeah 734<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2LH6l5940HzR7aGZa-nF0v98_I2VlWyve4x3XyFLtGLAhVybnL8p2RKUHiumK3b0yjZRWeN_eGOh51IgRgF8o7U4zbQpdJpp8jtYdJ6eQn_vGipHEoGUOZwlx-w1GBlRqSIlje2L75v9x/s1600-h/EDY+323-09.18.07++%2811%29.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2LH6l5940HzR7aGZa-nF0v98_I2VlWyve4x3XyFLtGLAhVybnL8p2RKUHiumK3b0yjZRWeN_eGOh51IgRgF8o7U4zbQpdJpp8jtYdJ6eQn_vGipHEoGUOZwlx-w1GBlRqSIlje2L75v9x/s400/EDY+323-09.18.07++%2811%29.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5247494260153827842" border="0" /></a><br /></div><br />Someone is standing on my feet. Not on them. Their soles are on my soles. I am standing on a doormat. They are standing on a doormat. All that separates us is a doormat. I jumped. They jumped. We both landed on the doormat, on each other’s soles. If it weren’t for this person on the other side of the doormat then I would fall into their world and end up on this other world’s ceiling and if I wasn’t here then they would end up on the ceiling in my world. It is very strange to think about. I don’t know if makes sense. For instance, when I leave the doormat they leave the doormat and step on the tile. When I walk down the stairs they walk down the stairs. We step on stairs and on each other’s soles. It would be kind of weird to one day step on something and fall through it and land on the ceiling in another world. I guess this sometimes happens when you go swimming, but it’s not like you fully leave this world.HLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03608771403891098131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2757081889955232586.post-72882151788489612102008-09-18T15:34:00.000-07:002008-09-18T15:35:38.035-07:00part 323.1 of a novel: doormatThere was someone with a doormat that said, “Mets.” I have never liked the Mets. I thought about knocking on the door and saying something like, “My name is John Franco,” even though my name is not <a href="http:///">John Franco</a>. I wonder what they would say if I said I was John Franco. Maybe they would say, “Hello John,” or, “Who is John Franco?” or, “No you’re not. I’m John Franco.” I also thought about saying something different like, “Hello, I am Todd Hundley.” I think I would rather be <a href="http://njmg.typepad.com/metsblog/2008/07/the-greatest-mo.html#comment-131282992">Todd Hundley</a> than John Franco. I did not knock on the door of the person with the doormat that said, “Mets.”HLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03608771403891098131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2757081889955232586.post-36977939988232772902008-09-17T12:37:00.000-07:002008-09-17T12:39:57.117-07:00part 322.4 of a novel: blurry day yeah 724<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguvc9jSAdza9daaH9QzcwKwHNls1pSGTRj-AvZrCJxE-YP32ZZngFRQay-SpCX4cpVJXzgWYQ0o16YLKaZ3QpsCq423ND-F7-ZvtzJfPDZpFjDBTwH_LArXw0syo0oRQvCP4CM-VD7Ko_v/s1600-h/EDY+322-09.17.07+%289%29.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguvc9jSAdza9daaH9QzcwKwHNls1pSGTRj-AvZrCJxE-YP32ZZngFRQay-SpCX4cpVJXzgWYQ0o16YLKaZ3QpsCq423ND-F7-ZvtzJfPDZpFjDBTwH_LArXw0syo0oRQvCP4CM-VD7Ko_v/s400/EDY+322-09.17.07+%289%29.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5247077289390443266" border="0" /></a><br /></div>Someone said, “I should have left five minutes ago.” I did not disagree with this person. I tried to find them a Band-Aid. I did not have any. Hair was clotting the sink or the bathtub or both or neither. I don’t know. It was definitely hair though, not a Band-Aid. I heard footsteps. I pretended they were a form of bird doing things. I do not know what sort of things. It would depend on the bird. I do not know what form of bird it was. This is why I don’t know what sort of things it did. There was a heart shaped something on the kitchen counter. I put it in the garbage disposal. Someone asked, “Where are my sunglasses?” I turned off the garbage disposal. I felt very excited. This was the wrong reaction. I thought, “Andre Agassi.” This did not feel like the right reaction either.HLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03608771403891098131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2757081889955232586.post-11933104234178327092008-09-17T12:35:00.000-07:002008-09-17T12:37:34.574-07:00part 322.3 of a novel: the trumpetI remember playing the trumpet when I was eleven. I played it for a month. A man named Milt tried to teach me to play. He had a <a href="http://www.swiss-miss.com/weblog/2008/07/get-your-mousta.html#comment-131058684">mustache</a>. I was not good at the trumpet. I quit. He seemed a little upset when I quit, but not really. He knew I didn’t practice. The other trumpets practiced more than me. I was holding everyone back. He patted me on the back and said it was nice knowing me and I said something like, “I just don’t think I have the lips to be a great trumpeter,” but I think we both knew I was making excuses.HLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03608771403891098131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2757081889955232586.post-25944407043709774512008-09-17T11:19:00.000-07:002008-09-17T12:35:24.896-07:00part 322.2 of a novel: my grandmother part 213My Grandmother sometimes says things like, “Garrison Keillor is a strange man.” Other times she says, “I think you should send a story to <a href="http://hello.typepad.com/hello/2008/06/blog-all-open-t.html#comment-131058346">The New Yorker</a> like Garrison Keillor did when he was young.” Other times she say things unrelated to Garrison Keillor like, “I worked at a mental institute,” or, “When I sold the house it was a very hectic time, but I managed and I think it’s for the better.” Then other times, and I’m embarrassed to admit this, but she’ll talk for a long time and I kind of zone her out and just nod my head.HLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03608771403891098131noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2757081889955232586.post-50442190714247594642008-09-17T11:18:00.000-07:002008-09-17T11:19:24.982-07:00part 322.1 of a novel: soap shopMy mother worked in a soap shop and read off a note card and told customers things like, “This soap cleans really good. It can clean the bottom of a lawnmower and make your skin feel soft afterwards. I think that it is the best soap I’ve ever used.” My mother spoke in a monotone when she read the note cards about soap. The manager said she should act more excited. My mother added exclamation points at the end of each sentence on her notecard. This did not help.HLhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03608771403891098131noreply@blogger.com0