I was unexpectedly contacted last year -- via myspace, of all things -- by a charming young woman who told me she really loved my work -- particularly my poem, "Librarian." She also asked very sweetly if I had any other essays or poems of mine that I might send along to her...because she is doing her finals project on me in her English class.
Now, I'm not sure if you fully heard or understood the completely outrageous and unbelievable nature of what I just said:
She is doing her finals project on me in her English class.
For her finals project, she needs to explain the theme, purpose, structure, metaphor, word choice, rhythm, and sound devices of my writing...and its context in American culture and history.
I am the daughter of criminals, courtesans, cocksmen, and carnies. I am a high-school dropout. I come from a working class family of nine HILARIOUS children, several of whom are dead, addicted, incarcerated, or crazy. I'm a shitkicker and a thief. I like Nancy Grace, iceberg lettuce, Supercuts, and watching a really good freeway chase on tv. Every morning, I liberally mist Jean Nate bodyspray onto my pulsepoints and onto my cooter. I am from Fresno, for chrissake.
I don't think I have ever been more genuinely honored or blown-away by anything in my entire life.
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