the writing life

(Originally posted 6/24/2013. Sometimes it’s good re-post the truly regrettable.)

I know. I know. It all seems very glamorous to those of you who continue to wield the sword or briefcase and have yet to pick up the pen, this writing life.

And it is.

Just this morning I was reminded of that when I went to butter my bagel. You see there were two yellow tubs in the refrigerator that looked identical but I knew that one of them had recently been used to butter some toast only a few hours beforehand. Being the toast butterer I knew this for a fact but I was unsure which of the tubs was new and which had supplied the aforementioned thus leaving it a few strokes of a knife short of capacity. Instead of just opening one of them to check I chose the writing life, and by that I mean I picked them both up a tried to figure out which one was lighter. Now keep in mind that the morning buttering had been the first time this container had been compromised so the difference in weight was only a few knife-fulls of butter. Holding one in each hand and trying to tell them apart was not easy work and demanded my full attention for the better part of twenty minutes. It was only the realization that my bagel was now a charred black ring and was responsible for the annoying fire alarm sounding that brought me back into the writing life.

Bagel or not I had a story to tell.

It was a true story about my attempts at breeding a dog that was half Great Dane and half Chihuahua. I wanted to be the proud owner of a Great Chihuahua. Now some of you sick bastards are no doubt one step ahead of me in imagining a male Great Dane trying to impregnate a female Chihuahua. I’m also guessing that it’s not the first time you’ve had that thought as your website history folder will testify. I’ll give you a moment to go clear it out.

For your information my Great Chihuahua was born after the female was fertilized through in vitro fertilization. I will admit I was forced to resort to this after the first two Chihuahua females were literally ripped in half by the enormous thrusting cocks of the Great Danes. What is it they say about making an omelet? You’re going to have to break a few Chihuahua vaginas.

Anyway, this story needed to be told and I was the one who needed to tell it. Some writers aren’t afraid to say things that everyone is thinking. In my case, I am not afraid to say the things that nobody is thinking. That is the writing life.

Except I didn’t have time to finish it because today is the day I go for my penis reduction surgery. If you find that shocking I’ll just get any additional shock out of the way early and admit that it’s not the first time I’ve had this procedure done. You see the initial cosmetic touch-up was done for the same reasons a woman gets her breasts taken down a notch. I actually donated a sizable chunk of my dick to a foundation that does sort of the same thing as those charitable folks who make wigs for patients who lose their hair due to chemotherapy. Sort of the same thing except with dick.

It was only after this first surgery that I found out my dick regenerates like a lizard’s tail. A “peculiar condition” as I’ve heard it described. I chop it off, it grows back. Now before you launch into telling me what a great thing it is for a lizard to be able to have his tail fall off and then flop around to distract predators as he slips away unnoticed let me remind you that having a dick that falls off in time of stress really does nothing to help me in the case of, for instance, a mugging.

Believe me, I know. I’ve been there. They demand my money. My dick falls off, slowly works its way down my pant leg and then finally wiggles out onto the pavement beneath me and then the mugger takes one look, makes a disgusted face and demands my money again. Even if it’s your own dick, nobody wants to see one squirming around at their feet. It’s disturbing.

So you see, having a regenerating penis isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Especially if it’s too big and you need to constantly have some of it removed. I walk into the doctor’s office and he greats me with the same prosaic chatter I get at the barber.

“A little off the top?”

Then as I leave I ask for a doggie bag for my Great Chihuahua.

Yes, it’s all very glamorous this writing life.