Madison, Wisconsin

Bear with me, please.

I am breaking up with Redbeard and I received a shitty email from my former employer this afternoon. Also, the house was shown today. The potential buyer was my age and had an extra “l” and an extra “a” in her name—the kind of excess that only makes one suspicious and triggers a sort of knee-jerk reaction not unlike the way I cringe at people who carry little dogs in their arms into the grocery store.

Meanwhile, Grimshaw—my trusty Antarctica character—waits on the blank page for me, twiddling his frostbitten thumbs and wondering what next.

I will get past this. Either that or I will learn to live with not knowing.

Meantime, chant with me with all your heart: Madison, Wisconsin. Madison, Wisconsin. Madison, Wisconsin.

Did you say it? Say it for me. Put it out there. Over six hundred applicants for 12 fellowships. Madison, Wisconsin. Madison, Wisconsin. Madison, Wisconsin.

I will get it, I will get it, I will get it. My head on the pillow, my feet at rest, my arms spread wide across the bed, falling into sleep thinking: Madison, Wisconsin. Madison, Wisconsin. Madison, Wisconsin.

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