Don’t you ever fucking stop.
Words, words, words. They float around my brain and play leap-frog in my mind, bounding over the backs of ideas and minutiae.
I read my first newspaper article when I was three years old. I had no idea grownups could be so incredulous. Sitting on the floor between the living room couch and the coffee table with the New York Times spread out and the yellowing plastic-covered sofa as my backrest, I’d read my paper and they’d marvel, foreigners in a land they’d never visited. What was natural to me made them an annoyance, their ooh-n-ahhing spotlights interfering with the metro section.
The other day I missed an opportunity to spill syllables and quite possibly, get paid for it. Who am I kidding I wouldn’t have won if I had entered that contest. They probably award on the side of mainstream feminism and chick lit – not a butch lovin’ femme who thinks she has a story (or two or ten) to tell about lesbian love and life.
One day, maybe. Today, I sip a cup of good french roast and dream.