Put the word “cunt” in your opening sentence and you’re bound to have a higher percentage of readers driven to the second. Just one of the many things I’ve learned in my current writing class.
I love it. My class. I do. I love the art on the walls, and the big red velvet chair, and the silver colored die on the table next to all the other dice, and most of all, I love the people I’m meeting there. All but one. Okay. I love all but a few, to be exact. I like most of the few that I don’t love; but there’s one fellow student whose work I dread hearing from week to week. I mean, like, if I saw her at a cocktail party, I’d drop a plate to avoid talking to her. Just because she’s that annoying. Sweet enough. But. . . well . . .
They all have this fucking blog address, too, my classmates. So it’s highly inappropriate and stupid to even be blogging this way. But, you know what? I’m a whore for words. I am. Not to mention the fact that, as liars go, I’ve got a penchant for tactlessly spewing the truth, or, if not the truth with a capital T, then at least my point-of-view at any given moment (subject to change, of course). Plus, NEWSFLASH, most people don’t read this blog.
Besides blogging inappropriately and stupidly, I’m breaking an important rule, too. Another writing teacher of mine proclaimed to her class years ago something like, “Above all, write with a generous heart.” Such good guidance. But I’ve always had a rule-breaking streak in my heart. No, not heart, scratch that, that’s cliche. My cunt? Gross. I’ve always had a rule breaking streak in my boots. My spleen. My molars. My taste buds. My right fist. Or, how about the balls of my feet? All of the above?
One point of clarification: IF this blog is read by the woman who actually used the word “cunt” in her piece in class tonight, she should know that she’s not the individual whose work and presence bothers me. I say this, because from the limited conversations I’ve had with her (the woman who used “cunt” in her opening line) she might wonder about that. And I would want her to know what I’ll probably tell her at some point, “You’re fabulous!” If one of us doesn’t die first. Because that happens.
In the meantime, though, before the conversations I hope to have, before one or all of us dies, before I say the c-word one more time, right now, there will be sleep. For me.
Grumpy & Tired Word Whore signing off.