155 words: by way of explanation.

The goal is a hundred words a day, roughly one decent-sized paragraph.  And I'm not actually bothering to use a word count feature, so I'm eyeballing it.  But the rule is this: once something get's written, I hit the publish button.  I need, I suppose, some sort of creative outlet, some means of self expression, but the even the thought of editing is stymieing me and nothing gets written.  So I can revisit -- copy and paste into a new post and touch up later -- but once the words hit the page, once they've been given a brief once-over, they get published.

I will probably regret this decision later.  I blanch at the thought of allowing other people to read bad prose, and when I revisit something I've written and find errors or poor sentence structure or bad flow, my embarrassment borders on shame.  But a hundred words a day seems like a manageable minimum threshold. 

Oh Hey Jerusalem

I got accosted by a vaguely crazy Israeli woman while I sat in a park, trying to finish the book I had nearly finished over lunch. “Can I talk to you?” she asked. “I don’t want sex -- not every girl who talks to a man wants sex. It’s not like that.” Sex hadn’t occurred to me as an option. I waved to the bench next to me. “Please,” I said. “This park is named for George W. Bush,” she told me. “He was the best man ever. If he was Jewish, I would totally marry him. But he’s not Jewish so it’s not going to happen. You have this celebrity in America -- Ellen Dangerous, something like that -- on television, very funny lady? She once called him, and he was so sweet and also he loves Israel and I thought -- I could marry this man. Do you still want to talk to me? If you don’t want to talk to me, I can go.” “Actually,” I told her, “I’ve got to go. I have to meet my friends. And, uh, my wife.” “Ok,” she said. “Well. In Hebrew we’d normally say ‘I wish you good health,’ but good health is nothing if you’re depressed -- I was depressed for years, tried to kill myself a few times, I know all about it, my parents wouldn’t even talk to me” (here she choked up a little) -- “so instead of good health, I’ll say, ‘I hope you’re happy.’ Just remember -- God is always watching you. He’s watching you, and he’s probably got his arms crossed in front of him, because God is like a bitchy girl. He’s like your bitchy girlfriend who’s probably pissed off, but wants to have a relationship with you, so talk to him. Ask him what you did wrong. Because if things aren’t going your way, it’s probably because God is pissed off at you, and you need to figure out what you did and fix it. You’re not perfect. God is perfect, but you’re not, so if something’s wrong, It’s probably something you did and God is pissed off about it, and you need to fix it.” “All right,” I said. “Well, peaceful Shabbat to you.” I always seem to attract the crazy ones.