Irony is when you exit the dry cleaner and a HUGE flock of birds IMMEDIATELY takes flight and poop-bombs you like you were Dresden — which could NECESSITATE A SUBSEQUENT DRY CLEANING. (I actually do need to throw my jacket in the washer now.)
This is collusion. That lady feeds the birds with a portion of her profits. I’ll bet there are rows of feeders on the roof.
Is this the haunted Nail Salon & Spa? It’s even named for NYC, which is where Stephen King’s dooming eponymous hotel room tormented poor Mike Enslin.
That’s some synchronicity worthy of The Dark Tower. FOLLOW THE PATH OF THE BEAM.
You KNOW how I love puns and portmanteaus, etc., etc.
Someone just called me “Nolandsman” and I am over the moon.
Why did biology class never teach us to interpret the weird sounds our bodies would start making at around age 52? Instead it was all about the pistils and the stamens and the mitochondria and the cell division.
I swear to you, something in my left flank just made a noise like half a whippoorwill call — but with a wistful timbre to it.
If I call my doctor tomorrow and ask him about wistful-whippoorwill-kidney, he’s going to dump me as a patient. Because he’s put up with a lot of shit up until now.
OH MY GOD, I FORGOT TO WANG CHUNG TONIGHT; everybody was told to do it.
This just in … AI developing targeted spam for authors is a goddam nightmare.
You can develop an ear for it pretty quickly — the language it employs has its own unique blandness to it. But, because I am often slow on the uptake, I thought these flattering e-mails were legit. (And it was a heady feeling to suddenly discover mysterious critics praising some very specific aspects of my writing from more than a decade ago.)
Now the problem is the frequency of these e-mails themselves. Maybe it’s just and end-of-the-year thing, but I got two in the last two hours, and they have a knack for fooling spam filters.
We never got the Westworld hotbots or Ron Moore’s chic, uber-cool cylons, but technology gave us this shit? We got robbed.
Why does everything have to be awful? Sorry. I’m in a mood.
Raise your hand if you think Haiku AF would be a great name for a literary magazine.
I submitted a poem to a new journal; I got a somewhat terse rejection letter. Then, just to underscore the point, they sent me the same rejection letter a day later. Sort of an encore-type thing.
Then, finally, I get an e-mail welcoming me to “The Sub Club” asking me if I “Want Attention.” I swear I am not making this up.
Not even gonna touch that one.
I got halfway down the wrong street before the storefronts finally clued me in. (“Wow, was this furniture store always here?” “They put in a bakery?! Overnight?! Ohhhhhh … wait.”)
Eric Robert Nolan, Author 