Today, a box of jellybeans arrived for me with an unsigned card. The card had a menacing message, equating the junk inside the box with the junk of publishing. And the jellybeans themselves boasted unusual flavors: vomit, pencil shavings, ear wax, and the like. Unsigned notes are always a little frightening, as are snot-flavored jellybeans. As it is, I don’t sleep well and often wake up screaming. Sometimes, while walking down the street, I imagine a car jumping the curb to take me down, or a bicycle messenger’s bag somehow catching my coat and taking me down where I am then run over by a taxi cab. Every morning when I turn the key in the ignition, I am ready to meet my maker a la Michael Corleone’s first beautiful wife. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just didn’t like your book. But hey, I turned down The Liar’s Club so what the fuck do I know. Please don’t mow me down in a Best Buy, please don’t spit in my kasha, and please don’t send poison jellybeans because you know I’ll eat them some late night when I’m reading someone else’s submission and wishing I were dead.
What’s the worse gift you’ve ever received?
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