It Make One's Mouth Hurt To Speak

I've Maintained Old Friendships, Like With People I Knew In The Nineteen-seventies, But Have Lost The Knack For Meeting New People. This Has A Lot To Do With My Writing Schedule. I Don't Want To Be Disturbed, And The Willingness To Be Disturbed Is, I Think, Part Of Being A Good Friend.

But Instead I Am Applying For A Job As An Elf. Even Worse Than Applying Is The Very Real Possibility That I Will Not Be Hired, That I Couldn't Even Find Work As An Elf. That's When You Know You're A Failure.

I Don't Write About Sex Because It's Not Really My Subject. I Love It When Other People Write About It, But It's Not My Subject, And I Don't Want Anyone I've Had Sex With To Write About It. Plus, You're In Front Of An Audience, And They Picture Wherever You're Writing About. I'm 52; No One In The Audience Wants To Picture That.

It's Odd The Things That People Remember. Parents Will Arrange A Birthday Party, Certain It Will Stick In Your Mind Forever. You'll Have A Nice Time, Then Two Years Later You'll Be Like, 'there Was A Pony There? Really? And A Clown With One Leg?'

Speed Eliminates All Doubt. Am I Smart Enough? Will People Like Me? Do I Really Look All Right In This Plastic Jumpsuit?