Doesn't Have to be Perfect

Right? Writing is a gift. The time to write is a gift.

So funny, your stuff about the Priapus Platypus. I was laughing out loud when I read it. I was thinking of another take on the word: What do you call a small-bodied, large-cocked wandering minstrel who hammers every broad he can lay his hands on?

Priapatetic.


Okay. I have to write some schroff now. I'm feeling rather desperate...like when you have a zit forming on your face and you tell yourself, "Don't pop it! It's not ready!" But then you succumb to the temptation, you're carried away by the remote possibility that it just might work if you hit it just right and you whirl back to the mirror and give it a harsh squeeze. Nothing...just a shooting pain right at the tip of the pimple that carries down into little flashes along your jawbone. You turn away from the mirror with a shrug, pretending to be casual, but feeling in your heart like a jilted lover.

You walk away, determined to give it time. That was dumb. Never should have squeezed it that once but hey, you had to give it a shot. Now you know for sure it's not ready. You'll just forget about it now and go about your day. It's really not all that noticeable anyway. Then, passing the hall mirror, in defiance of all logic, you whirl suddenly and give the pimple a vicious, groan-inducing squeeze. Nothing! Nothing! "Damn, damn!" You say aloud. Now the thing is twice its original size and pulsing like a second heart. You try to tell yourself that no one will notice but it's no use. If only you'd left it alone in the first place...