Well. Well. Existere rejected "The Mushroom Cloud Called Sadie Valentino," and I didn't like the wording of their rejection notice, which came in my e-mail. I should probably (hello) attack the story with a vengeance and rework parts or something, but it's late and I'm about to work on the new story. I suppose I'll submit to the Fiddlehead next.
Put on a large load of laundry when I got home tonight, it chugs away beneath my feet, beneath the floor, and beneath the underneath air. I have Ginsberg enumerating on my headphones, Bukowski's next, I'm going to work on this new story and work on this new story and work on this story, which sits at two paragraphs and glares through me like I was sunglasses. O Audience, you must be my sun--