The base note has something to do with sunscreen—a fair haired girl’s most important piece of camping gear next to bug spray which is the sharp second layer of the scent. The whiff of stiff, chlorinated towels, unwashed and hot from the top of the waist-high chain link fence they were draped over to dry completes the first perfumer’s chord.
For nuance, a drop of happy sweat from happy children come to wash their hands and faces with pink powdered soap from lime green metal dispensers hung over shabby sinks on which daddy long legs perch each rolling their eight dull eyes at the rush and frivolity of the new generation.
I am an essayist and poet. My work has been rejected by some of the finest journals in America. Fortunately, it also gets accepted from time to time and has appeared in equally fine journals such as Word Riot, Inlandia, Brew City Magazine, and SageWoman, among others.. In 2002, I won the Academy of American Poets Prize for Vanderbilt University.
For no good reason, I possess an unnecessarily dark humor which is why being third generation California Inland Empirian delights me so. My gods are weird. I once won $350 for writing a smartassed essay on “why the wise use of water is important in my daily life”. I am undoubtedly the Greek god Hermes’ special snowflake. I’m pretty sure I got into college via a series of fortuitous clerical errors.
When I had to grow up and get a real job, I decided against it and stayed a writer. I have worked many odd—and I mean odd—jobs to support my habit: PR writer for country music hopefuls, resume massager, WalMart fitting room attendant and switchboard operator, and telephone psychic, just to name a few.
I am also albino. That's why my psychic gifts are so strong. I traded in my pigment for magical foresight, because that's how it works. It gets all technical. Trust me. That's totally how it works.
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