When Syphilis Gets On Your Creative Parts

Me and my new friend, a statuesque, ukulele-playing blond named Sparrow... we'd simply put it all off for too damn long: Writing.

It was the thing we were supposed to say when people asked us what we did. It was our deal. Our main project. But somewhere over the years after college, the main project had become a side project, and then the side project was replaced by an inexplicable malaise.

I mean, after months of acquaintance through our jobs managing at Cafe Gypsy, neither of us had any idea that we both had this selfsame affliction. We never talked about it. It was embarrassing; something we could've taken precaution to prevent; something more serious than writer's block: Creative Syphilis. I almost forgot what it was like to draw up ridiculous conceits for the sake of a good story.

Things changed when Sparrow attended a pre-4th-of-July, post-McQuitter barbecue that Mikki, Betha, and I had thrown at our apartment. She caught of glimpse of my bookshelf and postulated that we might have been friends, based on the titles strewn about my floor. How I missed being able to judge people by the bookcovers they owned!

And just like that, it started up again. We were on the road to recovery. We decided to enter a contest to motivate ourselves, a short story contest through a publication called Glimmer Train. We had a month to write our short stories. Three thousand words or less. An easy side project to pursue.

We wrote sporadically up until the last possible minute: 11:59pm, when the deadline was an ominous, solid midnight... but finally, we each submitted a story. A fine story. But after sharing our work, we agreed that they both felt unfinished. No award-winning masterpieces this time. Considering the word and time limitations--with both of us still having the occasional flare-up of non-writing--our stories were still incomplete.

But it's just that, after years of silence, there is so much to say!

That syphiltic malaise has been replaced by this burning sensation, a compulsion to write...

Edit: I hate Crachel Cray

My mother, who has recently revealed that she reads my blog, would like me to publicly apologize for writing unfavorable (yet truthful!) things about a certain cooking show celebrity.

I won’t offer an apology, but I will concede to creating an alias to anonymize and preserve my tenuous relationship with her—as my mother pointed out, said celebrity does know D’Oprah, and you just never know what bridges you might be burning or building.

So, Crachel Cray, here’s hoping that next time, you’ll do the right thing and butt out of my business.

Speaking of times when it is appropriate to butt in to my business, I had a nice little conversation this morning with Mr. President of Badvertiser. I told him I would be working a couple times a week at Café Gypsy, where we first met. Always a nice guy—which is why I even bothered accepting the job here at Badvertiser—he expressed genuine concern for my well-being. “You know, when you overexert yourself, it starts to affect everything you do and it makes it so that you can’t even do anything anymore.” This, I know. This is how Gainfully Unemployed even began.

He also suggested that if I was working so much for the sake of my finances, I shouldn’t worry—he would buy me dinner if all I could afford was a margarita and chips… shit, I seem to be confusing him with Crachel Cray.

Actually, Mr. President assured me that once I started taking on more responsibility here, that I would be getting a raise accordingly. His point being: I shouldn’t work so much at the expense of my own sanity.

He is right too—I shouldn’t work so much. Which is precisely why I’m about to create a sign that instructs my coworkers here at the Badvertiser office to wash their own damn dishes; unless they’re smeared with frosting, demonstrating that my coworkers are not in fact cupcake-hating freaks, I REFUSE to perform this chore for them.