PS: Sorry About the Toaster
Tuesday, October 5th, 2010 07:41 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
radiumgirlToday was slightly disappointing on the "Get-the-Eff-Out-of-the-Donut-Hole" front, so after I slept off my migraine, I decided to work on my writing submissions. Hot Metal Bridge has a deadline coming up on November 12th and I'll be posting excerpts from whatever I ultimately decide to submit as I do my revisions.
That was actually today's mission: to choose which piece to edit. I think I have one chosen, but I'm not positive yet. In the meantime, I found this. "Radium Girl Says She's Sorry." I have zero recollection of writing this, and I'm not sure if that's awesome or kinda scary, but I think I might submit it to Johnny America (one of my favorite literary magazines, has a real appreciation for the demented and I'm-not-sure-if-it's-okay-to-laugh-at-this works floating around today). I think it's a slightly unhinged look at my writing process. My only concern is that is isn't nearly as funny if you don't have the knowledge of the background of the characters I'm writing about. For that very reason, I will not be providing you with their backgrounds, but if your curiosity is peaked, I'll be more than happy to hold a Q & A in the comments.
And seriously, if it doesn't work, let me know. Ex-roommate Chrissy is my one of my best advisors when it comes to my writing because she doesn't mind pointing out, "You're a freak, you know that?"
Radium Girl Says She's Sorry
Here I am, shockingly sober, trying to find something funny to write about because apparently my stories are too depressing/tragic/emo/emotionally scarring/whatever. Currently, this is easier said than done. My single standard operating procedure consists of “Instant Laughs: just add booze!” However, I’m supposed to be cutting back on all that in response to that whole naked-party-bathtub-toaster-emergency room-incident. That reminds me, Rooney is getting out of the hospital today. I should swing by his place and say “hey” and “sorry I broke your toaster.”
And besides, I already phone called/instant messaged/desperately e-mailed everyone that I could think to and despite the fact that I’m tight with every known druggie in town, I’m sitting here empty handed and sad. So, let’s just pretend I’m two bowls and a bottle of SoCo in and get right down to it, shall we?
I’m a killer. I kill people. It’s what I do. It’s what I’m good at. It’s what I enjoy.
My therapist feels that this stems from the fact that my dad died when I was a kid and that, because my own life was so profoundly impacted by his death, that I can only manifest true meaningfulness in the lives of my fictitious creations by cold-heartedly offing someone near and dear to their hearts. Personally, I chalk this behavior up to my being a hack.
Anyway, in an attempt to “make peace” with my murderous impulses, my shrink would like me to tell each victim that I’m sorry for their untimely demise. I think that making me write apology letters to people who never existed might be a sign of her instability, but the court order says I have to humor the good doctor, so I will.
Apparently you don’t get much choice in the matter when the nice paramedics pull you out of the bathtub and listen to you sob about what you did to “poor poor Finnegan” for seven miles, only to learn that Finnegan is none other than a super sexy zombie hunter who lives in your brain.
Here goes!
Dear Dominick,
Your name still brings a pang of guilt at the mention of your early demise at the hands of a German soldier in 1918. A week before Armistice too. Seriously, bro. My bad. You left behind a very preggers Margo who, we are told in later chapters, was sent to a home for unwed mothers and never seen again. I really do feel bad about that. She died too, by the way. But the baby was fine. He grew up and had a pretty nice life, all things considered. I mean, sure, he had all kinds of horrific memories of growing up in an early 20th century orphanage because no one wanted him. So, there were abandonment issues. And he was always on the small side because there was never enough to eat. But he was fine. Really. Eventually.
Sorry again,
Radium Girl
Dear Mrs. Clark,
I’m sorry I made you (presumably) kill yourself because, honestly, I really liked you. How many den mothers go camping in a cocktail dress? That was so classy! You were so classy! I want to be just like you when I grow up! But aren’t you happier, you know, now that you’re free of these mortal coils? Chris realized that this was all for the best and he’s a lot happier now too. He doesn’t talk to your husband, but seriously, Harold was a doucher anyway. Chris also shacked up with Leland in a nice loft on the South Side, but then, we all saw that coming.
Not surprised,
Radium Girl
Dear Francine,
Okay, I really do feel bad about that whole plane crashing thing. Not only does it make you look incompetent, but the idea that a low-income urban Pittsburgher like yourself would have the necessary skills to just randomly join the WASPs one day is highly unlikely. So, I’m pleased to announce that you will be resurrected in the newest draft of “Dreamland” and sent to sew parachutes in a factory along the Mon. You will realize, while he is gone, that you never really loved Andrew, and promptly dump his ass when he gets back from Indochina. You will live happily ever after. He won’t. Feel better now?
Reluctantly rewriting an entire decade,
Radium Girl
Dear Finn,
I’m sorry Gloria shot you in the face, but you did turn into a zombie. And before you start bitching, know that you inspired her to be an ass-kicking zombie executioner. I mean, after she got over shooting you in the face. You were her first kill, after all. And you had to be. It meant more that way. I can’t write something romantic without pulling a Whedon and you were going to go psycho without your Prozac soon anyway.
Semper Fi,
Radium Girl
Dear Louis,
You know what? You totally had it coming.
No love,
Radium Girl
Dear Radium Girl,
You were always my favorite, even when you were puking in the shower when that guy roofied your drink at the Shamrock Inn and you saw him do it and drank it anyway just to see what would happen. I mean that from the bottom of my delightfully self-absorbed heart. With that said, I must apologize for disposing of this most recent incarnation, but fear not. You’ll end up on a boat somewhere after you finally pass out and you’ll finally get to work all those daddy/abandonment/sociopathic issues out. And then you’ll finally be allowed to purchase a new toaster. I know how much you miss toast.
Love always,
Mary
That was actually today's mission: to choose which piece to edit. I think I have one chosen, but I'm not positive yet. In the meantime, I found this. "Radium Girl Says She's Sorry." I have zero recollection of writing this, and I'm not sure if that's awesome or kinda scary, but I think I might submit it to Johnny America (one of my favorite literary magazines, has a real appreciation for the demented and I'm-not-sure-if-it's-okay-to-laugh-at-this works floating around today). I think it's a slightly unhinged look at my writing process. My only concern is that is isn't nearly as funny if you don't have the knowledge of the background of the characters I'm writing about. For that very reason, I will not be providing you with their backgrounds, but if your curiosity is peaked, I'll be more than happy to hold a Q & A in the comments.
And seriously, if it doesn't work, let me know. Ex-roommate Chrissy is my one of my best advisors when it comes to my writing because she doesn't mind pointing out, "You're a freak, you know that?"
Radium Girl Says She's Sorry
Here I am, shockingly sober, trying to find something funny to write about because apparently my stories are too depressing/tragic/emo/emotionally scarring/whatever. Currently, this is easier said than done. My single standard operating procedure consists of “Instant Laughs: just add booze!” However, I’m supposed to be cutting back on all that in response to that whole naked-party-bathtub-toaster-emergency room-incident. That reminds me, Rooney is getting out of the hospital today. I should swing by his place and say “hey” and “sorry I broke your toaster.”
And besides, I already phone called/instant messaged/desperately e-mailed everyone that I could think to and despite the fact that I’m tight with every known druggie in town, I’m sitting here empty handed and sad. So, let’s just pretend I’m two bowls and a bottle of SoCo in and get right down to it, shall we?
I’m a killer. I kill people. It’s what I do. It’s what I’m good at. It’s what I enjoy.
My therapist feels that this stems from the fact that my dad died when I was a kid and that, because my own life was so profoundly impacted by his death, that I can only manifest true meaningfulness in the lives of my fictitious creations by cold-heartedly offing someone near and dear to their hearts. Personally, I chalk this behavior up to my being a hack.
Anyway, in an attempt to “make peace” with my murderous impulses, my shrink would like me to tell each victim that I’m sorry for their untimely demise. I think that making me write apology letters to people who never existed might be a sign of her instability, but the court order says I have to humor the good doctor, so I will.
Apparently you don’t get much choice in the matter when the nice paramedics pull you out of the bathtub and listen to you sob about what you did to “poor poor Finnegan” for seven miles, only to learn that Finnegan is none other than a super sexy zombie hunter who lives in your brain.
Here goes!
Dear Dominick,
Your name still brings a pang of guilt at the mention of your early demise at the hands of a German soldier in 1918. A week before Armistice too. Seriously, bro. My bad. You left behind a very preggers Margo who, we are told in later chapters, was sent to a home for unwed mothers and never seen again. I really do feel bad about that. She died too, by the way. But the baby was fine. He grew up and had a pretty nice life, all things considered. I mean, sure, he had all kinds of horrific memories of growing up in an early 20th century orphanage because no one wanted him. So, there were abandonment issues. And he was always on the small side because there was never enough to eat. But he was fine. Really. Eventually.
Sorry again,
Radium Girl
Dear Mrs. Clark,
I’m sorry I made you (presumably) kill yourself because, honestly, I really liked you. How many den mothers go camping in a cocktail dress? That was so classy! You were so classy! I want to be just like you when I grow up! But aren’t you happier, you know, now that you’re free of these mortal coils? Chris realized that this was all for the best and he’s a lot happier now too. He doesn’t talk to your husband, but seriously, Harold was a doucher anyway. Chris also shacked up with Leland in a nice loft on the South Side, but then, we all saw that coming.
Not surprised,
Radium Girl
Dear Francine,
Okay, I really do feel bad about that whole plane crashing thing. Not only does it make you look incompetent, but the idea that a low-income urban Pittsburgher like yourself would have the necessary skills to just randomly join the WASPs one day is highly unlikely. So, I’m pleased to announce that you will be resurrected in the newest draft of “Dreamland” and sent to sew parachutes in a factory along the Mon. You will realize, while he is gone, that you never really loved Andrew, and promptly dump his ass when he gets back from Indochina. You will live happily ever after. He won’t. Feel better now?
Reluctantly rewriting an entire decade,
Radium Girl
Dear Finn,
I’m sorry Gloria shot you in the face, but you did turn into a zombie. And before you start bitching, know that you inspired her to be an ass-kicking zombie executioner. I mean, after she got over shooting you in the face. You were her first kill, after all. And you had to be. It meant more that way. I can’t write something romantic without pulling a Whedon and you were going to go psycho without your Prozac soon anyway.
Semper Fi,
Radium Girl
Dear Louis,
You know what? You totally had it coming.
No love,
Radium Girl
Dear Radium Girl,
You were always my favorite, even when you were puking in the shower when that guy roofied your drink at the Shamrock Inn and you saw him do it and drank it anyway just to see what would happen. I mean that from the bottom of my delightfully self-absorbed heart. With that said, I must apologize for disposing of this most recent incarnation, but fear not. You’ll end up on a boat somewhere after you finally pass out and you’ll finally get to work all those daddy/abandonment/sociopathic issues out. And then you’ll finally be allowed to purchase a new toaster. I know how much you miss toast.
Love always,
Mary
