<Thanks, Joe, for the post title.>
Late yesterday afternoon, I hoofed it the couple of miles through our eastern North Carolina version of bitter cold, gloved hands and big coat, double socks and damn me for failing to wear a hat, to the local post office, a pre-stamped packet in hand. In my back pocket, a flask with about two shots worth of Jameson’s in it. Ritual. It’s what sustains, in the absence of whatever else.
Salud. Good luck. Get published, you bastard.
Then I hoofed it back home by sundown, in fast-dropping temperatures, to press shirts and slacks for week two of a new job, this thing that is now my today. And I’d say more about that, really, except that I’m not.
Salud. Good luck. Get published, you bastard.
Upon arrival in the empty lobby, I withdrew the flask, said a little toast, kissed the envelope and dropped it in the appropriate slot, taking a long hit on the whiskey. The first old-school-mailed submission to a magazine in I don’t know how long, a humor sci-fi story, recently greatly revamped, that is still probably DOA. Yet I’m long overdue to take a stab at, quite possibly, nothing. Ritual, etc.
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