Once in reverence and once in despair 2


Facebook has been doing this thing lately where it suggests I friend people who have the same name as my high school boyfriend, but are not him. I keep clicking anyway. I keep hoping, as if what lies in such a superficial connection is the resolution to my first heartache. Of course, it was resolved, over a decade ago when he cheated on me, dumped me, then married that girl about a year later. I dyed my hair vixen red and almost flunked out of Calculus. I passed the final exam by one miraculous point. Losing him made me doubt all of my convictions. I was a straight-A student, suddenly barely edging by. I quit playing sports and started working horrible mall jobs. I stayed out all night with Air Force guys I met at the Safehouse, listening to Korn and wishing the desert cold were more bitter. It took me far too many years to understand that his leaving had nothing to do with me, and that maybe that was the worst part too.

I’m going to be reading about loss next Monday for Quiet Lightning at the Conservatory of Flowers. The exhibition is called “Wicked Plants” which I am half in love with already.

Stephen Elliot wrote recently in one of his Rumpus emails, which you should subscribe to because they’re wonderful:

“Confidence doesn’t work without insecurity. It’s the combination that results in art. You have to believe that what you have to say is important and then you read what you wrote in the morning and see you were wrong.”

I’ve always felt like a fraud, that any day someone will find me out, and it’ll all be over. There is a pleasure too though in this fraudulence. It’s like being a traveler, or the Other Woman—sometimes the only salvation is knowing you can leave.

At SF Weekly, I dealt with a different kind of fraud. I gave the reins of one of my Twitter accounts over to a bot. I’ve been having conversations with the bot for about a week now. The word “conversation” is used very loosely. The last thing it asked was, “When do you think artificial intelligence will replace lawyers?” Judging by the success of this bot’s adeptness, I’m gonna go with never. This, however, is quite funny:

Also at SF Weekly, I was nominated for “Best media personality on Twitter.” I don’t know what the prize is if I win, which I won’t because I’m up against an SF Giant, but if you vote for me then I will say something really nice about you on Twitter. Not even just about your rack, though that is spectacular.

My hero Dear Sugar, whose words fill me with reflective abandon, like old friends who stop by for a weekend but stay a year, recently said she had an advice column crush on me. I would die, but then I would no longer be able to write like a motherfucker.

Lastly, at the RedEye, how to fake it till you make it.

(I didn’t even realize there was a theme until just now)

(Here, listen to some Adele)

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