Maybe I've been in hiding. Or maybe I never felt like writing in this blog. Either way... so?

I'm rewriting my novel. The ending isn't written... but besides that it's done... oh and besides the whole rewriting thing. It will never, ever be done. Sorry.

It will be done. Just not for a while.

The problem is I have much higher hopes for the next novel. And then I say... fuck the next novel... make this novel up to those standards! Work on this fucking novel! Rewrite this mug! Rewrite the balls out of it! No matter what, the next novel will be better... but I still want to put a jug more sweat into this one.

Good day.

I can’t stand the noise. I think I might add to it with an elaborate scream. I think I might step on one of these bastard children’s foreheads and push.

BJ says, “When the hell is she coming out?”

I can’t help but wonder why this is so important. Why we’re on the second story of this library anyway. Why children can’t help but pick their nose… a lot.

There are fifty kindergarteners on the floor and fifty adults in the seats around us. Most of the adults seem to be parents of the squirming floor demons. I don’t feel right in here. This seems like some kid’s birthday party that I just accidentally wandered into.

The teacher, she’s black, she says, “Everyone needs to be extra quiet or Marcy might just hop the other way.”

The children don’t give a shit about being quiet. They’re jumping, they’re crying. This room is too small to hold this much noise. I think the walls might protest.

Luke says, “How the heck are they going to get Marcy upstairs anyway?”

I tell him that there is an elevator.

“A kangaroo in an elevator? That’s absurd.”

A man that looks like he deserves respect walks in. His khaki jacket with plenty of pockets to stuff snakes and things tells me that he is definitely Australian. There are crocodile teeth arranged on his hat. The children don’t give a shit, they’re tumbling this way and that, laughing, talking about childish bullshit.

BJ says, “Where’s the kangaroo?”

“Marcy will be out in a minute, but first, let me introduce myself.” The Australian man isn’t answering BJ, just speaking. He puts his hand on his hip. He says, “My name is Mick and I am Marcy’s mother.” Suddenly this man is very, very gay.

Luke is laughing. Would you expect otherwise?

BJ says, “He’s not really Australian… I can tell. His accent is as fake as a wasp’s compassion. And he stole his name from Crocodile Dundee.”

There’s a woman frowning at BJ from a few seats down.

BJ sticks her tongue out at her.

Mick says, “It’s okay to laugh. I know it’s a tad bonkers, but she really does believe that I’m her mommy.”

Luke was the only one laughing. Luke is still laughing. Luke says, “It’s not even what he said… it’s… I’ve never heard an Australian man with a lisp before.”

Luke says, “So tell me something interesting. I’ve been on the road with Jon so long that I’ve forgotten what interesting is.” He shoves another potato wedge into his mouth.

This place is mismatched. There are four thousand fishing lures on one wall, framed pictures of classic movie stars on another. There’s a Pac Man machine in the corner and a butter churn beside it.

The unimportant atmosphere of the moment is the wooden owl head on our table. There are napkins crammed into a slice carved through its head.

BJ says, “You want to hear something interesting?” She’s got half of a hot ham and cheese sandwich waving in the air as she speaks.

“Yeah. That’s why I asked.”

I've stumbled out of my novel these past few days... crashed into reading. I've read three novels in the past three days. I plan on finishing a fourth tomorrow.

I need to write about this kangaroo I touched.

Good day.