Slovenia (Or How It Happened In Three Parts)

I am resisting the urge to exploit my personal life by writing postcard stories and sending them to various literary journals (such as Grain, Other Voices, et al.) for publication. Really, I have had so many glorious ideas for stories as a result of my own turmoil. Last night, while I lay in the fetal position on the floor in the shower, I was crafting sentences about how everything was slowly unravelling in a matter of three days. I even had a title. It was Slovenia (Or How It Happened In Three Parts). But I would maybe have to change the parentheses, because I stole that from a short story published three seasons ago in Grain. So maybe just Slovenia. Either way, it was brilliant. Either way I am sitting at a table with the incorrigable boyfriend, his parents, their business partners and a girl I thought was a boy watching old people polka their hearts away at the Slovenian Cultural Center. I was being the bigger person.

I was being the Biggest Person, because despite the fact that a night out with my friends the evening before was a complete disaster; despite the fact that there had been a huge fight in front of my friends; despite the fact that there was an icy cab ride home; despite the fact that the fetal-position-shower-thing happened there, too; despite the fact that one of us slept on the couch; despite the fact that he yelled at me; despite all of those things, I did my hair and put on a nice outfit and went to a weird Slovenian party in celebration of all of the big game they'd shot in 2007 and I rose above. I had a nice time. I made the best of the situation. I was the Biggest Person On The Face Of The Planet Earth, Including World Record Winners For Tallest Or Fattest Or Most Famous. However, there's a fight in the car on the way home and an hour-and-fifteen-minute shower where I lay on the floor and contemplate my life. Sketched stories. Crafted perfect first sentences.

I don't know how I could continue having relationships with people in my life if I exploit those relationships' misgivings with the written word. That is not my task, here. At least, I don't think it is.

So I'm not going to write Slovenia, despite its literary genius. And I'm not going to submit it. And I'm going to work on coming out of the hole I've created over the past two days, and I'm going to finally return the phone calls of my anxious and caring friends.