|This is the most disgusting picture I have ever drawn. Why do you guys make me do these things? Seriously, sometimes I wonder about you.|
And then you're all "why is this happening to me?! what did I do to deserve this?"
And then you realize it's probably because of the whole "happy as a clam" thing, because honestly, are clams really that happy? I mean has anyone ever really asked them? If you think about it, a clam's existence is actually pretty craptacular. They have these gross squishy slimy bodies which, in theory, should make them safe from all predators, but is actually the reason they die. Because those squishy slimy bodies are actually quite delicious, especially when steamed, dunked in butter and drizzled with lemon. Mmmm.
And before they die they spend their days trying to spit out all the sand that manages to weasel its way into its tight-lipped shell; but no matter what they do the sand gets in and is all itchy and irritating and causes a tiny little clam rash, which probably only enhances their deliciousness, and then the sand gathers together and forms a beautiful pearl which the clam doesn't even get to keep.
Or is it oysters that produce pearls? I don't know. And you know what? I don't care.
Because someone dumped a giant pile of dog crap on me today.
And no, it wasn't as awesome as it sounds. In fact, it down-right sucked. Apparently having a pile of dog crap dumped on me also gets me one free ride on the train to This is Just Beginning, You Haven't Had a Bad Day Until You've Had This Bad Day Town, because for the rest of the day the crap just continued to fall all over me. And not only is that not as awesome as it sounds, it also gives one a complex that one, well...smells. Ya know? Cuz you're covered in feces.
Are you guys loving this metaphor as much as I am?
You want to see more pictures of people covered in poo?
Don't worry, this is where the metaphor ends. Because in the middle of wading through all the crap, something wonderful happened. Something seriously amazing. I ran into a friend during lunch who wanted to introduce me to the friend she was with. And you know how she introduced me? As a writer. A WRITER. She didn't introduce me as my "day job" profession, the one that I actually get paid for (Number 1 beeper salesman, WOOT! Beepers? Yeah beepers. Like from the nineties? Yes. They're totally making a comeback). She introduced me as a writer. I don't even introduce myself as a writer. Why? Because I'm not paid? Because I'm not published?
Who cares? WHO CARES? I write so therefore I am a writer. Do ya hear me? I. AM. A. WRITER! In your face! I'm not exactly sure who I'm yelling at. No one is contesting me on this. Except for the voices in my head that are all, "really? really? you're not a writer. you've never been paid for a single word. you've never been published. your blog? ha, that doesn't count." Well you know what voices, it does. It totally does. I say so and my friend said so. SO THERE.
I am writer. A good writer, a bad writer. It doesn't matter.
I AM A WRITER!!! Who apparently? Needs therapy.
Or at least a hose.
To my friend who called me a writer, you know who you are, you gave me one of the greatest gifts I have ever been given. Thank you.