After all, I’d never earned such a favorable reaction for any of my serious work. Maybe I needed to take myself less seriously. Maybe, sometimes, we all do.
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It's the catalyst for a long career, the book I clearly needed to read right then. Call it kismet, luck, coincidence. I call it a gift.
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Bitches who can’t be told no. Bitches who are always right. Bitches who need to have the last word. Bitches who wish you’d try them. Bitches who bite motherfuckers’ heads off. Bitches who won’t let anyone touch you. Bitches who’ve given me everything they have.
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However lost or uncertain I get, however washed out by lengthy periods of fitting in, I’ve
been reminded that I am at heart okay—my weirdness is right there in whatever notebook I carry
with me, always tucked away in that blue canvas bag or another.
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