Babydolls, Broke-Ass has happily received all your lovely messages of encouragement, following her piece in the New York Times last Sunday. Thank you. You can’t know how far and wide these missives go to cheer her up. As for some angry or bewilderingly critical responses that have been posted on the Times’ site, Broke-Ass has nothing to say: She just doesn’t read them.
Broke-Ass has three goals in life: to love up, feed, and educate her schmushkies as well as she can. That’s it. Maybe it doesn’t seem like an all-consuming aim, but in this economic climate for a middling writer such as Broke-Ass, it’s pretty damn tough sledding. Broke-Ass could break out the white board to quantify and qualify why this is so, but she hates PowerPoint, and plus, it’s kind of humiliating.
The basic thing is that financial fall-out and its consequent stresses have left Broke-Ass with a blown-out thyroid, a couple of holes in her stomach, and a daily regimen of anti-nausea medicine given to chemo patients; without it, she literally stress-pukes her guts out, unable to stop until an IV of the stuff is jammed into her arm. Suffice it to say, she needs to read mean things like she needs a third hole in her addled tummy. But she writes for a living, such as that living is. So there we are.
People always get mad when you write stuff. They’re mad about a lot of stuff, and when they read your stuff on a public platform, they often feel even madder. They kind of forget that the stuff is just written by a person with a lot of crap to deal with, too. It’s all fine. Broke-Ass doesn’t sweat it too much anymore. We’re all angry, irrational, sad, flawed, and lovely–everybody’s a Tom Waits song, to one extent or another. What can we do but just keep doing our best, even when it strikes some as bullshit? It’s what we got.
The more important thing is beans. So, look out: Tomorrow is going to be full of fucking beans. Awe. Some.