She didn't know that I enjoyed the taste of radioactive waste

In the past week, I've been rejected by three literary journals, including Paris Review and Tin House. (Dream big, mtherfckers!) It's weird how they're all piled on top of each other. I mean, I know I submitted the story all out on the same day, but damn. There's always a tinge of disappointment when I get them, of course, despite it being all part of the process that's becoming more and more familiar. But really I think what bums me out the most is knowing that I have to start researching new publications to send the story out, writing new cover letters, printing all the envelopes and label, and all that rigamarole. Pushing the boulder up the hill one more time. Perhaps this time it will stick.

This morning, after dropping DYA off at work downtown, I rolled down the windows and turned up the radio and realized a new season had finally come upon us -- driving slow, going several blocks out of your way home while watching the hot guys milling around or breaking a sweat. Yep. It's construction time in Chicago.