This originally appeared on misteragyeman.blogspot.com on May 17, 2016.
Titles of stories I meant to write (the concepts of which, alas, are perished):
- 1. With Friends Like These, Who Needs Enemas?
- 2. My Homework Ate My Dog.
- 3. … (There was a multitude, but their titles now languish in the same barren wilderness of my mind — that especially murky terrain where the neurons grow thorns.)
Anyway. I had like three essays planned for this space. But I recalled a terrifying whisper which came years ago to assure me that we are all cursed to bear the affliction of the thing that we most comfortably disdain. I would usually brush off these hairy whispers, but I look all around me and I see wise people — people I respect — falling into this yawning pit. So I won’t be waxing eloquent for a while; at least, until my life is fixed.
But I do want to feel my fingers fly again, with their wonderful entomological busy-ness. I also want to use the many words I know but cannot pronounce, such as languorous, and satiety, and effete. So watch out for them bombs.
Nike was a goddess
and now she’s just a shoe;
another weary witness
to what an ad can do.
Is this how Meg Cabot makes her money? Inviting people to explore the cobwebs of another cranium? I suppose the mould does seem greener on the other side.
I know. I scintillate. (I pronounce that just fine, thank you.) In the ensuing pause, John delicately transferred his bowels to his other hand.
I have been extemporising now for about five years. It’s gotten to the point where I feel I’m cheating if I don’t wait for a solid, important thought before opening a text editor, because I know I will make something anyway. It’s a weird excuse for procrastination, but there you have it.
“Wait — what?” Mary said, taking off her sunglasses again. But the display of menace was dulled by over-use, and Elsie merely blinked in that languorous way so characteristic of flatulent beeves.
Beeves means cattle. It used to be a thing people say.
No, ma’am — this poison is not indicated for peripheral device control.
If I did this regularly, would I go viral? Maybe a fan would buy me a machine because they couldn’t bear to wait three weeks for the nectar of my neurosis. It is a tempting thought.
Jane, this is Archibald. Would you believe — he also collects xylophones!
No. I will be strong. Next post will be a story (sensible? more or less) about ‘Gladys’.