One Arm Out From Under the Porch, Waving a Tiny Piece of Paper With Some Words on It

Important enough for me to post and repost.

Cheri kicks my ass, if only I remember to go to her when I am feeling like crap.

Now, if only I could remember it:

Not special but occasionally lovable.
Not special but occasionally lovable.
Not special but occasionally lovable.
Not special but....

But -- gawd-dayum I'm so pissed at myself because I haven't written anything worth a damn in a while.

Shit.

And FUCK ME, FUCK ME, FUCK ME, I wish I had written this:

Mr. Hayes probably got forty bucks for publishing this, but who the hell cares? It's freakin' beautiful ("I now know "bolt" is to lock and "bolt" is to run away.") and it's in The New Yorker.

Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair.

In other words, good ole Ozymandias was saying, you better read this, commit it to memory, before the copyright police come along and make me take it down.

Right now, I am jonesing for grace.