I have things to say. Really, I do. But I’m happy at the moment and there’s nothing worse than a happy writer–unless, of course, it’s a formerly-angsty-now-happy chanteuse (case in point).
Like, if I mentioned the corny sentiments I felt yesterday as I drove away from New Orleans, looking at a perfectly bright blue sky that had only an hour before been pitch-black with clouds, thinking that nothing on earth was as beautiful as that sky, except, perhaps, the sight of my boyfriend’s face–I mean, you’d wretch, right? Slap me in a pinafore and call me Miss Goddamn Ingalls-Wilder.
Sorry, but that’s the mood I’m in right now. I know anger and sadness are much more interesting–without ’em, you might as well just move to upstate New York with all the other ex-performance artists and raise a family–but hey, I don’t claim to have any control over these things. Like when I’m talking to someone–a co-worker, an elderly man on the street, a bellhop–and I get the sudden, nearly irresistable urge to grab the hottest cup of coffee I can find and throw it in his/her face? I can’t control that either…
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