I have been devouring books this summer. I've turned to them like any other comfort food helping me to forget the horrible job market situation and the loneliness I feel.

One after another I eat them, consume them. I can feel the words digest in my stomach and filter through my body giving me the nutrients I need to live. I lick the dripping sentences off my fingers and wipe away stray words from the corners of my lips.

Different authors have different tastes. Terry Pratchett is ice cream, and each of the different disc world catagories has a different flavor. The witches are mint, the Wizards are strawberry, the Guards are Rocky Road, and Death/Susan is Cookie Dough.

Sometimes I'm not in the mood for ice cream, but a darker dessert, and for that I turn to Neil Gaiman, who is the darkest of all dark chocolates. When I bite into his books, it feels like slipping into a hot bath, goosebumps cover my body and I sink into bliss.

And then there's Brautigan, wonderful wonderful Brautigan. He is my watermelon, my juicy juciy watermelon. He covers my mouth and hands with sugary drippings, sticking on me for the whole day. I sit on my stoop at night and spit out his words like seeds, pi-tew, pi-tew, pi-tew. I've got good distance these days.

I see that look in your eyes again, and I hear the strain in your voice. you don't think I'm a writer, you don't think I'm good enough. You're too polite to tell it to me, but I can tell. And yes, I may not have the glamourous style of the real world, my words do not fall into prose, and so what if I turn to fantasy? It's my style, and I never said I was writing for you.