So, hey, I just submitted a story to a literary magazine. You have no idea how goddamn nervous I was just clicking the little "OK" button. Seriously. Maybe this whole thing wouldn't be so bad if I didn't gauge my self-worth on whether or not I've been published. Yeah.

The next few weeks are going to be fun.

Cross your fingers over railroad tracks for me, OK?

Anyway, Tiny Dancer came in tonight.

Excuse me while I change my panties.

I don't think I can even describe how this man interacts with me. He's like a Saturday Night Live parody of Mid-Life Crisis Man or something. I half expect him to pull out a little palm-sized book entitled "Be Slick and Get the Chick". And on the cover is some huge, hairy guy with Expressive Eyebrows and the bling bling and, like, a half dozen pretty ladies falling at his white loafers. Yeah.

But! I have this friend who is totally Garth from Wayne's World and he came in tonight right before we closed. He's something like eight feet tall and we were having an animated conversation about the ass-ugly carpet when I noticed Tiny Dancer in line, glowering at us. I laughed and laughed and laughed.

OK, not really.

I just kinda wanted to give Garth a big fucking kiss for showing up at the exact right time.

OK, again, not really. That would probably confuse the poor boy.

This entry is really starting to suck. Starting? Ha ha.

How come cool boys don't get crushes on me, huh?

Christ. I actually found myself starting to answer that question with many valid points.

I think it's time for me to eat some cookies.

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