One rejection this week. That brings the total rejections this week to: one.

Things are slow on the rejection front. Probably because I send them out in waves and most lit zines seem to have roughly the same turnaround rate. Also, I am getting lazy about turning them back around. My self-confidence is pretty much microscopic right now.

But the big news of the day/month/year: Wild Oats now sells kinnickinnick gluten-free bread, hot dog buns, bagel-esque things, hamburger buns, etc. Even the bread-lovin’ other Melissa agrees that the sandwich bread tastes exactly like Pepperidge Farm sandwich bread although I’ll have to take her word for it since I can’t exactly do a taste test. I had my first real peanut butter sandwich in five years on Tuesday. My first french toast this morning. I cried it was so fucking good. Maybe I can stop having my ‘oh-my-god-I-just-ate-some-wheat!’ nightmares now. Yes, I have nightmares about eating bread. At least I usually make it through half of a blissfully good sandwich or pizza or loaf of actual french bread before the nightmare shit hits the fan. Now I will probably have ‘oh-no-it-wasn’t-really-gluten-free-bread!’ nightmares. It’s a very odd thing to know that something that makes up a huge percentage of everyone else’s diet is actually (and literally) poisonous to your particular anatomy.

I had a dream last night in which my high school arch-nemesis/girlfriend led me into a warehouse that was also a brothel and I kept saying, “I’ve had this nightmare before” over and over. Then I woke up and immediately said, “No I haven’t,” because really I haven’t had that nightmare before. My dream self is just a pathological liar. Don’t believe anything she says. Especially if she offers you bread.