2. Let’s gossip. Sinead lasted 16 days and that’s pretty good because if your man is on an iPad during the ceremonies you are fucked. (Then again he stalked her online to set up the matrimonies, so…) He’s a drug counselor (dork alert) and they of course went and got some crack and weed for the wedding night shenanigans. Sinead had to leave, OK? She said she was “living in a coffin.” (Actually, marriage is not a coffin, per say, but rather another walled habitat, an institution.) A few years ago a company in Massachusetts would sell you a “living coffin.” Here’s the deal: You buy your coffin but keep it in the house, like in the living room (groan at the pun, sorry). They even had shelves for books and a wine rack. The lid of the coffin was hinged to the back so you could push it up against the wall. Once you die, the lid could be attached with maple pins before burial. You sit there in your room staring at your own coffin daily and you are sure to finally recognize the macabre miracle of your daily existence as one of the living beings today on this planet. I think.

1. You have two days to enter the Frank Hinton/ xTx chapbook contest. I Vouch for it.

11. “Barefoot on the Pulpit” is a mighty fine poem for you today.

4. Here is a little pick-me-up. Dickens finds his baby daughter dead and must now write his wife about the situation (she is away). He does so, in this letter, but he fudges the truth a bit, in a very caring (maybe?) way, to prepare his wife for a situation, a concept naturally impossible, this preparation. But he tries.

7. In the UK, if you harass a badger and are caught in the act, your name will be added to the United Kingdom National DNA Database. I shit you not. For life, man! So don’t do that. Don’t harass badgers.