Most of my twenties was a series of decisions made both poorly and publicly. I would like to say that they fit the adage “bad for life, good for writing,” but seeing as thus far they’ve only proven mediocre for my writing at best I might need to find something more pithy to repeat about them. Probably something more apologetic when I run into old friends.
The two versions of this wedding poem read at the Ding Dong Lounge Reading Series are a prime example of that, something where I look like a jackass both reading them and explaining them. When this all blows up in my face someone, will probably try to comfort me by saying that this will be good for my writing. If I’m lucky they’ll be right. For a change.
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