All my crabbing on here amounts to something- just last week I wrote something that might be publishable! I have a mess of works to revise, this most recent one included, and then I am opening myself to rejections with a vengeance. A vengeance, goddamnit.
What else. Part Two of my Resume was recently published on Prime Number Magazine. (Everyone rejects Part One. One rejection came with the feedback that no would care about the main character and her “gritty, miserable life”. God, writing nonfiction can suck.)
I am now Blog Editor of Specter Magazine!
I am writing a call for submissions for an anthology I’m co-editing with someone brilliant about how fucking fucked up it is that we beat on and rape each other in the queer community, then clap on rainbow smiles to show the world our solidarity like nothing ever happened.
I started the application for Voc Rehab. My disability case was denied; I meet with a lawyer Tuesday to appeal. And as of this week, I am now officially a Welfare Mom.
The government now has the power to say where I live, how often I can leave, how clean I must keep my home, whether or not I may continue to parent my child, how often I must apply to jobs or attend work-ready workshops, whether or not I can purchase cigarettes, alcohol, piercings, or tattoos, whether or not I am worthy of food, whether or not I receive child support, and what sorts of medical care, tests, and medications I am deserving of.
We won’t even speak of the goal sheets.
I hope that every dumb ass white middle class hipster commi-wannabe has to live this way for at least three months, with a white male republican for a roommate.
In other news: one of the tadpoles we rescued has back legs. We also saved a fish from Walmart who now lives in a glass vase and is moving to a proper tank when we can afford to do so. His name is Wally but I call him Shred. He is a pale rainbow color; he watches us carefully, blows seductive little bubbles along the surface as he flashes his long beautiful fins at us until we cave and give him an extra pinch of freeze dried bloodworms.
Animals that I now care for: one service dog, one elderly companion cat, approximately 17 tadpoles found in a roadside water bottle, one betta fish found brightly-lit and half dead in a dirty plastic container on a shelf next to a plaster Spongebob Pineapple-Under-the-Sea aquarium ornament, one mealworm beetle that survived a classroom of first and second graders and now lives in a small plastic bin in a handful of bran on my kid’s record player- and, although I am not responsible for these (L. moved out, his beasties moved in), two symbiotic bacterial conglomerates that look like a sheep’s brain and a sheep’s liver, respectively, which L. claims will somehow produce a healthful and drinkable tea called Kombucha, I presume through their waste products. Mmmm.
Oh, and about nine worms in a burgeoning pink plastic worm bin on our back porch, and one christmas tree. Not the cat, he went back to Georgia.
He hated Tumwater and social services and our neighbors’ hollering and the restrictions on outside visits and the reek and flies from the garbage dump and the vegan food bank cat food so much that he cracked, took to attacking everybody and tore a single hole three feet up in the wall deeper and deeper by jumping incessantly late at night to hang from the wall by one claw and stretch the rip just a bit more- spring, claw, hang, spring, claw, hang, spring, claw, hang- and when he started routinely shitting on the porch and pissing on the front door we sent him home.
The tree was a gift from L. last Christmas when we lived in the Collective. It came from Grocery Outlet wrapped in shiny green cellophane with a felt tree on a stick stuck into its soil. It has somehow survived all of this, and even grown.