As soon as he gets out the shower, Ima kill Ned. He didn't wake me up till after 7:30! WHY? WHYYYY? Aaaaaand, he didn't get in the shower till after THAT, so now I'm trapped, panicked, waiting for him to be done so I can go in there and did I mention Ima kill Ned?
From now on I'm setting an actual alarm made of metal and not Ned. I guess alarms are made of plastic now, aren't they? I like how in my head it's 1969 and I have a huge clunky ticking alarm clock on my nightstand.
Actually, I do. I just haven't had a battery in the thing in 400 years. I once read that digital alarm clocks give you brain tumors or something. But that alarm is so loud and jarring that I stopped using it and used my phone instead, which probably also gives you brain tumors.
Anyway, last night, I actually put on clothes--real clothes with buttons and zippers and the like--and went to dinner with Ned.
We went to the Italian place in my old neighborhood. I suggested it because on Wednesday night, I was finally actually hungry again. Since Monday, I'd eaten, like, a piece of toast and one green apple. I'd love to weigh myself but I can't see the scale without my glasses and my glasses aren't in the bathroom and then by the time my contacts are in and I'm dressed, it's too late to weigh myself. I know. So let's just assume I'm down to 90 pounds.
Anyway, Ned had called Wedesday and asked if I needed anything. "Yes. How about spaghettii and spaghettii sauce? I'm finally hungry." So he did. He brought--
are you ready?
He brought whole wheat spaghettii.
WHOLE FUCKING WHEAT SPAGHETTII.
You've ever even met me, yet would you in a milion years bring me fucking whole wheat spaghettii? And then Ned does the worst part.
Oh, I hate that. Marvin used to do that, like the time it was Christmas Eve and I sent him to the almost-closed store for tomato paste and he came back with a tomato. "What?" Like, oh, you can boil this and dehydrate it and condense it and whatever till it MAKES paste, Ma Ingalls! That'll be EASY!
Some scars never heal.
So I was STILL HUNGRY for Italian food, seeing as emory boards covered in sauce did not do it for me on Wednesday.
Anyway, I was glad to be there but I'm depressed. And this is crazy, but is it?
You know how I write for Purple Clover. Every week for two years now, I send in a column. Lately, they've been putting up more and more of my old columns on Facebook, along with other writers' columns, and mine? Do not get NEARLY the Likes other writers do. I mean, other columns will get a thousand Likes. I'll get 249.
I was telling this to Ned last night at the restaurant. Unfortunately, he was distracted because I'd taught him something I deeply regret, and that is that you can look up words on MerriamWebster.com, and your good friend Merriam will repeat said word back to you. Pretty much any word you can think of, you can get that site to repeat back to you.
"Am I just a terrible writer?" I asked Ned, sipping my Pellegrino neurotically.
"Cocksucker," said Ned's phone.
"Sweetheart, no, you're not a terrible writer. Maybe those people have more Facebook friends than you," said Ned.
"Horsefeathers," said his phone.
"It's not got anything to do with how many Facebook friends you have," I said to Ned, who has 36 friends or something and who goes on Facebook once a century. "Your friends wouldn't know how--"
"Twat," said Ned's phone. "Twat, twat, twat,"
"Ned, there are children at the next table."
"Son of a bitch," said his phone. "Son of a bitchen. Twat."
"Ned. Your friends wouldn't know if your story was up on the Purple Clover page. You don't link to the story, they do."
"You just have to keep writing," said Ned. "Don't give up. You're doing the right thing."
"Flagstick," said his phone. They didn't have fuckstick listed on Merriam Webster.
Anyway, it's disheartening and seriously unhealthy, how I look at my stories and compare Likes.
Right? That's unhealthy, right?
But twat would you do if you had stuff you created up there in public, and you could compare and contrast? You'd do it do, right?