I was telling someone today that American poet Henri Cole hates me. Which is true. He does. He's actually hated me since last year..at least I think he hates me. For all I know he has no idea who I am and it's all in my head. But here's the story of his hatred. Henri Cole is a faculty member here at the Summer Writers Institute where I work and he got upset with me last year because I didn't dedicate an entire section of the bookstore to his books. In an attempt to let him know why we couldn't give him an entire section I called him Henry instead of Henri. He quickly stopped me in my tracks and said it's pronounced On-Ree and then gave me a deathly stare. How was I suppose to know that's how you pronounced it? Anyways, I saw him this morning on campus and he gave me that same deathly stare. The kind of stare that said I hate you. Then someone pointed out to me that since he's a poet he probably doesn't hate me. He most likely loathes me.
On a positive note, my co-worker just gave me an egg and cheese sandwich on a hardroll.