The dog ate my homework

Buy me this here:
lindarohrbough.us/clocks.htm

Know what’s hard about making a commitment to write here every day? I’ll tell you what’s hard about it. Sometimes I’m working diligently writing other things that don’t fit here or that I’m not ready to publish, and it’s the last night of spring break, and then the clock passes midnight, and I realize I haven’t given my attention to my commitment here, and I’m going to make yet another excuse because that’s what writer’s do best. We make excuses. Here’s mine.

At the bootcampFriday, I worked on a piece that I’ll post here soon that’s about bar napkins and rape culture. I just need to finish it.

I also worked on two poems that I wanted to update, because I’m an idiot. See, I judged at the last poetry slam I went to. I didn’t read or slam, just gave scores to other poets. The guy who won has hosted poetry slams for years, and I’ve known him for years, so he knew if he performed my favorite poem, which is about a pocket pussy*, I’d give him a 10. So he did, and I did, and he won. Like a dumbass, I told him the next time he slammed in May, I was going to slam too, and I would kick his ass. I wasn’t even drinking yet.  Maybe I bumped up against a testosterone lick block. I’m not sure why I issued that challenge.

I’ll be honest: my kicking his ass is about as likely as my getting up the courage to join an online dating site any time soon … No, it’s less likely. But I opened my big fucking mouth, so I will at least have to take the mic and try. And that’s why I’m working on spoken word poems instead of vagina posts lately.

Anyway, I’m happy with the work I did on those two poems at the bootcamp, and I continued to polish a couple of other poems tonight with some degree of success. Meaning I think they’re finished … at least until next time I turn my critical raven’s eye on them. I don’t think they’ll win a slam, but I don’t think I’ll embarrass myself either. There's no predicting what will happen until the judges turn their score boards around, but it’s hard to beat a pocket pussy poem.

Also, I’m my own worst critic, so I never know if anything I write is good or if it’s a shitpile of introspective drivel that has so contaminated the poor innocent words they can’t ever be recycled, must less reused.

I do wish working on poetry hadn’t prevented me from writing the post I intended to write here tonight, because I’m excited about it, because LISTEN UP! Somebody sent me a Dear Reticula letter! How fucking cool is that? And it’s about dating, which we all know I’m a bitter, miserable failure at, but let’s not tell, shall we? Somebody wants my advice! So tomorrow night, on the last night of March**, I will stop working on poems and write my one and only reticulated advice column. On dating, no less. Wait for it.

* I was going to insert a photo of a pocket pussy here, but I googled pocket pussies ... and .... yeah, no. There may be a not-so-hidden metaphor here, but you're on your own if you want to look at photos of pocket pussies.

** I realize I missed about 3 days of writing this month. I do intend to make up those posts, and that’s no April Fool’s joke.