Facebook Rejection

Years ago, I told a friend that I would never go on Facebook.  If I wasn’t already talking to the people, I didn’t need to be interacting with them on Facebook.  I said I’d only be interested in contacting people from elementary school and my old babysitter — people from before adolescence. These people represent pivotal parts of my early development memory data.  Things got too complicated after adolescence.

I wanted to contact Margarita Fong, Yu Ching Wong and Suk Soo from P.S. 152 – and no, I didn’t go to school in China Town – I tell you that Suk Soo was rough.  She didn’t speak English well, but mess with her you’d see — she’d take on an attack stance and yell in her heavily accented voice, “You talk!  You talk!”  You’d run right outta there!  I would also like to contact Nina from kindergarten, Mary Lou, Zaida, David, and my fourth grade teacher Mrs. DePierro with the rotten teeth – though she’s gotta be dead now.

It was necessary for me to get immersed in social media to “market” Mean-Spirited Tales.  So here I am on Facebook.  I sent a couple of these people from the days of yore Facebook friend requests.  I haven’t heard back.  Except for my old babysitter and Mrs. DePierro, perchance they don’t recall me, as they were just babes themselves back then, and I’ve heard some people say they don’t remember anything before the age of ten.

That’s hard for me to believe since I have very early memories, though not as early as that guy who says he remembers coming out of his mother’s vagina – haha!  I remember not being able to walk and I remember someone changing my diaper — they put Johnson & Johnson’s Baby Powder on my butt.  Just after learning to walk, I waddled to my brother’s crib and snatched the pacifier out of his mouth.  I guess the crib was low and I had a high reach.

It might just be that the folks I’ve reached out to haven’t been fortunate enough to recall such nascent gems.  So I’ll just chalk the rejection off to “lack-of-memory-cognizance syndrome” and be done with it.

 

Why do a public reading if you hate reading out loud?

I hate reading out loud.  I feel like I’m publicly luxuriating in my ability to enunciate fluent English, or showcasing the melodic quality of my voice.  Reading to a roomful of people makes me anxious.  I buy my 1 and 4 year old nephews books when I visit, which means I must read to them, but I don’t really like it.  It makes my mouth tired and I hate when I start to sound nasally.  Generally when reading out loud, I feel my persona or whatever vibe I may have at the moment intruding on the text.  Reading out loud also makes me feel like I’m showing off how well I can read out loud.

At my author reading on Saturday for my book Mean-Spirited Tales, the words rolled right off, of course, because I know these stories blind.  I think I did a fair job of being animated when necessary.  It felt like a performance.  A lot of people came and there was some interaction.  My one good friend was the ring-leader with her laughter and applause.  My sister came from Massachusetts — how blessed I am.  Fellow blogger Margarita from Serenity in the City came with her husband — what a pleasure it was to meet her!  “We actually exist,” I told her.  She’s a very attractive woman with a great vibe.  I talked to her for a while.

I was overwhelmed in a good way at all of the support that I got.  When I got up to read there was screaming and loud applause.  The laughter was fun.  I often laugh while writing some of my shit, hoping that others will laugh when they read it, but I was surprised even at some of the places where people laughed.  I stopped at one point to ask the audience, “That was funny? Okay,” and I laughed along with them.

People called the next day and said they had a good time.  Whew!  To me it was rather exhausting.  Ms. Waiting from The Waiting described doing readings as nerve-wracking — that’s exactly it.  I don’t know if I want to do another one.  If I do have another reading, maybe I’ll ask someone else to read.

And thanks so much to all of the bloggers who wished me well a couple of days ago.  I took all of the well-wishes with me.

 

 

 

Uhhhh…yeah…I, ah…

I wonder what you bloggers are like all fleshed out.  How do you smell?  Do you have armpit odor? – I love armpit odor.  What color are your auras?  It’s hard to tell from the mini-faces that come when you like my post.  I uploaded Grandma Hattie’s painting for mine.  I hope you like it but if you don’t it’s okay.

Me, well, I’m everything you’d imagine.  Why I’m all, well, kind of…  I’m a biped.  I wear light fragrance.  But I don’t know what I smell like really – it’s kind of hard, you know, being inside of your own body, to smell what you smell like…  I don’t use deodorant.  I use a mineral.  Sometimes it doesn’t work.  When that happens I have, armpit odor.  Um… kinky hair…  My skin has a sheen on it, and, I’m a kind person, actually – brown with round eyes…  Uhhh…yeah.  I, ah — English is my mother tongue.  I speak it fairly well and I know phrases and curse words in other languages. That’s how I’m describing myself now.  I hope you’ve enjoyed reading it.