PulpLit.net

Oh yeah, blogging, I do that sometimes

I don't recall asking to look like Rizzo from Grease and yet there is definitely something of a younger Stockard Channing in this haircut.

This is somehow emblematic of this January. As the gods attempt to squeeze out one last farting burst of monkey before settling into the year of the green chicken for good and for real, everything is just slightly to the right of where I expect to find it.

This is not necessarily a bad thing, but even in ordinary times, I bring what I like to think of as a refreshing breath of clutzy disorientation to everything I touch. I am bordering precariously on the slapstick now with all this hair and outrageous fortune business.

This green chicken is, I think, sitting down with the green pig, laying a few green eggs, and hamming it up.