By David Adler
I began the week a brooding and self-pitying writer, who was spending far too much time sucking on sour grapes until they were bitter raisins. I even went back and forth via email with an editor who had rejected one of my stories. This is not a good way to endear yourself with potential future patrons. But it had been far too long a time since I'd torched a bridge (and, in this case, I’m fairly certain that I burned the fucker to the ground), and in that sort of "I love the smell of napalm in the morning" empty machismo way, well, I still didn't feel better. I felt like I do when I yell at the television while watching a Laker game, screaming at Andrew Bynum as if I were sitting courtside next to Jack Nicholson and sneaking out with him for blow during TV timeouts or just when we damn well wanted to. I was a crazy man. A loon in sweats and a Cal hoodie. Read more »
