On the walk into work just now, I realized what a stupid idea this is. My unedited work is horrible. I made an analogy that this is akin to being 40 years old and naked in Bloomingdales window. Err...no. I'd rather be naked in Bloomingdales window any day, in fact, I'd rather be naked, extending my legs in the air and shooting out ping pong balls.
I'm not sure that I can do this. I'll try...but I might have to abandon the idea of public posting and just return to using the blog as my own emotional Prozac and writing the novel in private.
Plus, I'm not joking about election jitters. I'm terrified, no, horrified, by George W. Bush. I can't stop worrying. It's affecting everything - I even yelled at the dog on his walk today because he sensed my tension and wouldn't play catch. Every morning I toss a tennis ball around with him for exercise at our stupid excuse for a dog park in my yuppie neighborhood. He insisted on bringing his giant dog treat along on the walk, which he always chows down before we go out, and then wouldn't eat it or drop it...he just kept looking at me with it hanging out of his mouth like he expected me to just leave him alone and play with myself.
Hahahaha - I guess he knows more about me than most people.
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