I am giving it all up. Being a writer, I mean. My love affair with the written word has caused me nothing but grief. Lately I have noticed that quite literally everything I have ever written has come back to haunt me in some way. Everything. From Scarface to Captain Quesadilla to freaking ST. SEPTEMBERSTINE, I have been punished for it all. Time and again.
This may just be because I live in a small town, but this is absurd. I write something stupid, post it somewhere, the wrong person will find it and decide to exact vengeance. Then they’ll share it with friends, who will all want vengeance too. Then there will be a week of solid vengeance. Man, could you deal with a whole week of people exacting vengeance? On *you*?
Alas! There’s nothing I can do about it because once I’ve posted something, that’s it- it’s out there. I’ve got every social networking site known to man working against me. I may *think* that no one reads, but they do- and once they’ve read whatever meaningless crap I decided to yank out of my head on any given day (while I was in god knows what kind of mood), it’s all over- it doesn’t matter if I change my mind
Because I already wrote it down. I start out telling one story, and before I know it I’ve told ten stories. Then my whole life is graffiti on a wall somewhere. Indelible ink. Framed with the Declaration of Independence. Sitting in Archie Bunker’s chair.
And there’s nothing I can do about it! It’s like going to school and finding out someone stole your private diary and passed it around the cafeteria. Every day. And years down the line, people are still exacting vengeance because I made a red, white and blue pirate outfit and got a bunch of death threats while singing the Flinstones theme at Madre’s? On the freaking Fourth of July?
Jesus. I still haven’t heard the end of that one.
And I swear! If I hear one more stupid fake accent, I am going to bomb a building.
Of course, I won’t really bomb a building, but the problem is that I already wrote it down. And people will see it.
So now if a building gets bombed . . .
There is more I want to say on this subject and if I ever write again, I may say it. You never know. I’ll probably have a lot of spare time when I’m in jail for bombing a building. Because in my world, that is what will happen.
And. I. Quit.