We knew we shouldn’t do it. we told ourselves not to get cocky. But we did it anyway. Every day of dry ground, warm temps and sunshine was like an extra french fry in the bag…a thirteenth brownie in the box…a gift from the weather gods. Alas, just when we thought we had this icy thing called “Winter” licked, it whipped around and bit us right in the ass.
So, old man Winter…day after day of ridiculously frigid temps and snow up to my knees isn’t enough? No trash pickup for days didn’t do it for you? Kids out of school for weeks isn’t torture enough? Dogs piddling in the house rather than face your icy, menacing breath? You didn’t think that was enough torture? No. Now I hear you’re extending the abuse for several more days. Well…I’ve had it. I’m done. I’m just not going to participate anymore. As of right now, it’s Spring.
I don’t see your snowy beard or feel your icy breath. You are green and warm and little birdies are singing.
You can’t break me.
I’ll just dive right into the delusions that help me make a living.
Shit’s real now, isn’t it? Yeah, I see you quaking in your boots. But those boots are dry, dammit! And flowers are growing out of them.
Such pretty flowers…
Yeah, I’ll admit I’m functioning under a God complex. Who wouldn’t be? I mean, I can give a good man love or take a bad man to his knees with just the stroke of a pen (or key #:0). I can make the skies boil and the seas foam. I control time, conjure magic, and bring entire continents to heel. I am writer, hear me roar, prostrate yourselves before me or I’ll smite you with a single keystroke. (Okay, it might take several keystrokes – I’m good but not that good.) I can right wrongs, banish evil, and scour Heaven and Hell for solutions to the world’s problems.
Give me a cheating spouse. I’ll make his peeper shrink. I’ll make an evil mastermind cower in my presence. Under my deft touch, a lost child is found, a found child is lost, and giant snakes eat both the cheating spouse and the found child in one hearty chomp.
Yes, it’s a heady power and one not to be wielded lightly. Which is why I’m initiating a call for writers to be licensed. Not everybody is equipped to handle such power. It might go to their heads or their…erm…fingers.
And to make sure the correct people are in charge of controlling the worlds they write, I’m declaring myself the single arbiter of all licensing. Only I will decide who can be a writer. Because I’m smart and strong and capable enough to not let it go to my head.
I mean, everybody knows I’m smarter than the rest of the world. So of course I should be in charge.
Happy reading everybody!