Things Hemmingway never said: I’m worried I might spill my beer on my laptop. Do you think Starbucks is still open? I’ve had too much to drink.
Things Emily Dickinson never said: I’m worried my poetry isn’t commercial enough. Do you think this is too depressing? I’m going to post a video of me twerking on YouTube.
Things Lenny Bruce never said: Do you think I can get away with saying this? Oh, that’s not very politically correct, is it? I think I should clean up my act.
I am a little disillusioned with the world I’ve found myself in, as I dictate the first draft of this post onto my iPhone. I don’t know when exactly I adopted all of this new technology, darlings (I mean, I supposed I could check with the adoption agency, or else dig through my receipts) but I fondly remember scribbling notes on beer mats, on the backs of receipts, on anything available. I remember writing out entire first drafts of things by hand, with asterisks and circles and arrows, indicating where another entire passage (which might have been written on the back of a Perkins place mat, where, at one o’clock in the morning, after a post-bar meal of pancakes and sausage, I came up with the brilliant addition) was to be inserted.
I remember pockets full of napkins covered with drafts or doodles or ideas or phone numbers.
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