Yay. New Yipes is here again. Come see and be seen by the greatest minds of your generation and me.
My internet is nappy again, and I am still bummed about that famous poet who called me a disgusting lumberjack. Man. Soon, I will get over it and feel better about life and my blog and other stuff, too.
Jenny Drai said she loved my manuscript, but she still thinks that I am a shitty poet. Darn.
I have to pay my electricity bill soon, and I will send them a poem again, and I will post it here for all of you.
Thanks for your support in these trying times.
i like the line about butterflies that go bump in the dark.
You are lying. I didn't say you were a shitty poet. I didn't say anything of the sort. Also, although I gave you six or seven pages of notes on your manuscript and we talked about it too, I am pretty sure I never said I 'loved' it. That is gushy and people say things like that all the time without supporting their statements and that just reminds me of a bad workshop. I am not a bad workshop.
Thank you, Paul. Thank you for your notes, too.
Jenny, you said you loved it and wanted to sleep with it under your pillow so that you could have ideas as good as mine, but then you said I was a shitty poet. Something about Death of the Author or something. Like, the poems are mere artifacts. That I am shitty, but they are good.
This is disgusting. I should be ashamed of myself.
Unlike most people I know, I do not sleep with a pillow. Therefore, I do not sleep with your manuscript under my pillow. My pillows are on the floor where I vomit when I am disgusted by your disgusting blog and can't find my blog bag. I have been having trouble keeping track of it lately, so once I even had to vomit into my hands.
That's right; you wanted to use it as a pillow. It is thin and hard like your little soul.
I am sorry about the vomit. Vomit tastes like children in the wintertime. Next time you think of vomiting, you can tell me, and I will hand you your blog bag. It has a picture of my face on it, encouraging you.
Then I will use it to hold my manuscript. Publishers like it when you give them things that smell like your vomit.
Your Vomit smells like roses in the snow.
One more barnswallow outtayou and we're gonna have issues of New Yorker sent to Hallowe'en hamlet in your name, and everyone will know how much you loved my manuscript because that's the way things go when you're young and nauseating.
It is an excellent manuscript. But I'll leave the judgment of the size of my soul to those who have them. That was a crow. But now we can stop, I think.
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