vent /vɛnt/ (noun)
1. an opening, as in a wall, serving as an outlet for air, smoke, fumes, or the like. 2. an opening at the earth’s surface from which volcanic material, as lava, steam, or gas, is emitted. 3. Zoology. the anal or excretory opening of animals, esp. of those below mammals, as birds and reptiles. 4. the small opening at the breech of a gun by which fire is communicated to the charge. 5. a means of exit or escape; an outlet, as from confinement. 6. expression; utterance; release: to give vent to one’s emotions. 7. Obsolete. the act or fact of venting; emission or discharge.

I am not sure what category of definition this post will fall into, #3 or #5 or #6, but here goes…

I am sorry to say that my health isn’t all that, and it has my mother and husband (who would’ve thought I’d ever have a husband? well, I have one) worried, and the doctor is even considering the thing I had been hoping it wasn’t and is testing me for it next week, and I just think it is NOT FAIR and will I have to become a macrobiotic to not die, will I have to join a gym and actually go to it, and is this what it means to grow up and get old, you have to take care of yourself and eat vegetables, really?

There.

Now that that’s out of my system, at least there’s some good news: my sample was chosen for the lower YA series I was auditioning for, so I will be writing book #1. I am concerned about time—knowing I will put this project first, what will suffer, my health more than it already has, my novel-in-progress, my stories, my day job, my opportunities to goof off? Surely at least the goofing off. Either way, I’m excited. I wanted the chance to show a range and writing the sample was a lot more fun than I expected. I was telling myself not to be disappointed if they didn’t pick me, and then they picked me so yay. Also, many other things to do on the horizon—this weekend I will be watching noir films for inspiration for another project entirely—so this is not the time to feel worn out.

Perk up.

Now, to complete the vent, I will leave my latest rejections, spread out not even artistically on the couch:

What I should be doing is dyeing my roots for the company party tomorrow night, but I’m just not up for it. The dyeing, the party, the blood tests, not in the mood.

It is time for something therapeutic. Thus, I have snagged the latest issue of Vanity Fair. I also have this:

It looks so very yummy.