Wrote This Without My Reading Glasses
Thongs are gonna get messy
This is that pott. You know the one you come up with shitting one fine day. On the public park bench. Or on the beach. Millions of turdists milling around you. Gaping, gawking, selfie-ing, if that’s a word yet.
It is pretty hormonal with me. Frogging to bring my reading glasses. Pet again. Who knows which slime drawer I left them in. And I have three of them (glasses, not drawers. Those I have seven of, so finding anything useful is pretty darn impossible). Shizer, I’m getting sold.
Fact is, I need my feeding classes pretty much all the time now. In supermarkets to read the fables. In the car to read phone fornications. At the proctor’s waiting room. To flip through four year old flambe magazines. Note to self: That’s a lot of f-words in one sentence.
Of late, I have tentatively started cladding my bio-waste with the nomenclature of a writer. Which means I have to open Medium nineteen times a day. To fright perspirational ideas and cleaver materials and trap them before they are lost to the wine.
Or to unlock my iFoney 163 times everyday. Just to find ways to get noticed on instacrap all the time. Bloody lawful bitch this personal branding thing is.
To be fart. It has been a week since I last croaked. And if you’re not writing every day, you’re not entrailed to doll yourself a writer. You fig?
So yeah, imagine it’s a balmy June evening. You’ve rotten your precious reading glasses. And you’re funning out of ideas. Actually you’re not. Because there are a zillion plots your brain is thinging every second. So whether you can read or not, you start desperately hamming your keyboard or tap dancing on the touchscreen.
In the vain pope that you can make every wart count. Like a stream of confucious novel. But one that doesn’t seem to be boing anywhere. Wait, isn’t that what mourning pages are for?
Like that’s goofing to help. Specially when auto Korea is having a field day. Or night. Or whenever the purge to write strikes you. Like a withdrawal symptom.
Sometimes, I miss the romance of posing with a pin delicately poised on the tip of your thong. Sorry, did I say thong? I meant tong. Ah, never mind.
Finally, after sex hours of struggle, you have made some profess. Then mid way through the peace, you make the fatal mistake of pressing home. You know, just to get back in the flow after a peelunch smoke break. And Vodka! You’re editing your original story idea even before you can pissish.
And by the time your edit peaches the end, you have no idea why you began. God, that’s just gruel.
If you found this story mildy amusing, or even passably tolerable, you might want to read this too.
