Category: Writing

October 8th, 2024

Journal Writing

October 8th, 2024

Crabby or Just Shellfish?

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My girlfriend says I get crabby sometimes. Sure, I get moody now and then, but “crabby” seems a little harsh. I mean, not everyone can be as ecstatic as Sebastian from The Little Mermaid, singing about how wonderful life is under the sea. Let’s be real—the sea is a harsh mistress. Kind of like how my girlfriend will be after she reads this.

But maybe she’s onto something. If I were a crustacean, would crabby even be the right fit? Maybe I’m not crabby; maybe I’m more of a lobster—tough on the outside but soft and sentimental underneath. You know, I’ve got a tough shell, but I still melt her heart—just like the butter you need to fully enjoy a lobster. And sure, I take her to fancy restaurants like… Red Lobster. Hmm, maybe we’ll stick to Applebee’s after all.

Or maybe I’m more of a shrimp. I’m small, harmless, and definitely quick to get a little “short” with people. But hey, when life gets overwhelming, a shrimp cocktail should help me chill, right? Too bad it’s hard to relax when every tuna, cod, and mackerel in the sea wants to eat you. But don’t feel bad for me—this shrimp doesn’t need your shrimpathy.

I could be a krill instead, but let’s be real—that doesn’t sound much better. I’d still be krill-humored. I mean, you’d be grumpy too if there were millions—no, krillions—of you, and everyone you know keeps getting krilled. It’s pretty kruel.

How about a barnacle? I wouldn’t be crabby, just clingy! I’d stick around no matter what, even when she wants a little space. Permanent attachment—it’s what barnacles do best.

Or maybe I could be a crawfish—easygoing, laid-back, never getting in a crawful mood. Just one cool crawdaddy, never reaching my boiling point… at least I hope not.

But if I had to be a crab, I think I’d choose a hermit crab. That sure would be shell. I mean, who doesn’t want a portable home they can retreat into when things get a little overwhelming? Sometimes I just need my own little shell to crawl into for peace and quiet—maybe that’s where my “crabbiness” comes from. It’s not a bad life, though. I can carry everything I need on my back, dodge the tough situations, and emerge when I’m ready. Plus, let’s face it—I’d rather be a hermit crab than shellfish. At least hermits come out of their shell every once in a while. Shellfish? They’re just in it for themselves.

October 3rd, 2024

Journal Writing

October 3rd, 2024

Boo Humbug: A Fraidy-Cat's Guide to Halloween

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Halloween is creeping up on us, and I’m officially creeped out. It’s like one of those creepy crawlers you swear is crawling up your leg—except this time, it’s the entire holiday giving me the heebie-jeebies. (Still not sure what those are, but I’m definitely covered in them.) I know, I know, I’m a big fraidy-cat. I’m even afraid of my own shadow, and honestly, I think my shadow is just as terrified of me.

Look, I’ve tried to embrace the spirit of Halloween, I really have. But when you’re jumping at fake skeletons in the grocery store and side-eyeing the neighbor’s inflatable spider like it’s plotting against you, it’s time to admit defeat. That’s why I’m proposing a new holiday: Yelloween! A holiday made for all my fellow worrywarts who are as yellow-bellied as I am.

And trust me, I’m about as yellow-bellied as they come—think rubber chicken level. But if I’m such a chicken, why do I get goosebumps? It’s like I’ve got a whole farmyard of emotions going on. At this rate, if I keep getting spooked, I might just buy the farm—and I don’t mean in a good way!

“Yelloween” would still have trick-or-treating because, let’s be honest, no one’s afraid of free candy. But the trick part? I could live without it. Between cleaning up eggs some teenagers threw at my house—eggs I swear I didn’t lay—and the annual smashed pumpkin massacre on my porch, I think I’d rather skip the ‘trick’ altogether.

And don’t get me started on the decorations. Cobwebs? My house looks like that 365 days a year, thank you. Add a skeleton in the yard and suddenly my heart rate’s doing cardio I didn’t sign up for. Talk about things that go bump in the night! With my heart pounding like that, it’s a bloodcurdling scream just waiting to happen. At least the vampires would turn up their noses at it—curdled blood isn’t exactly their style!

Now, as for costumes—why do people always go for ghosts, monsters, or witches? Who actually wants to be a ghost? I’d probably scare myself half to life. Let’s keep it less spooky. Maybe dress up as something more relatable… like a dentist, doctor, or lawyer. Although, come to think of it, the last thing I want to see while devouring a bag of candy is a dentist. They’re scarier than any ghost—I mean, they come armed with a toothbrush and floss that could double as a noose! Now that’s a real brush with death!

September 27th, 2024

Journal Writing

September 27th, 2024

My Five Senses? More Like Non-sense!

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People often tell me I have a good sense of humor. I tend to agree—at least one of my senses works. As for the other five, well, let’s just say they’re not exactly playing on the same team.

First, there’s my sense of sight. It’s truly “out of sight,” meaning if something isn’t directly in front of my face, I can’t see it. Folks tell me I must have eyes in the back of my head, but I don’t think it’s a compliment. I think they’re implying my eyes are literally back there, hidden behind my hair. Hair today, gone tomorrow, right? Oh, and technically, I do have 20/20 vision. But when you divide that, you get one. So, I figure I only see well out of one eye. People say I’m as blind as a bat, and I’m not talking about the flying mammal—I’m talking about the baseball kind. I have the same accuracy too: sometimes I hit, sometimes I miss. Honestly, I’m more blind than the umpire calling that miss.

Now, my sense of taste? Let’s just say my taste buds and I aren’t exactly best buds. They’ve developed this elite, snobby attitude, like they expect me to serve up a five-course meal for every snack. My palate? It’s basically a palette—an artist’s palette—for a culinary masterpiece. Herbs, spices, sauces—it demands a Michelin-star experience, every meal. Yet somehow, people still claim I have bad taste in movies or music. I have no idea why—I’ve never tried to eat a Blu-ray or a vinyl record. Unless that’s a new food trend I’m missing out on?

Hearing? That’s a bit of a selective process for me. I mean, I could hear you, but why strain myself? People yell at me, “What are you, deaf?” And I’m like, do I look like I’m walking around in a black cloak with a scythe? Although, a scythe would be handy if I needed to harvest some corn—you know, to replace my ears. If you saw me reaping corn dressed like that, you might say it was a bit eerie. But honestly, I wouldn’t hear you anyway.

As for my sense of smell? Well, I think it’s time I renovated my olfactory into a new factory. Let’s just say it’s snot working well. I blame all those scratch-and-sniff stickers and scented markers I went wild with as a kid. Little did I know they’d leave me sniffing out permanent damage. I didn’t nose this would happen!

And finally, my sense of touch. That’s a real touch-and-go situation. I used to be the kind of person who’d always touch base with people—ironic, considering I’m blind as a baseball bat—but now, I’m completely out of touch Honestly, it’s a touchy subject. I thought I had the magic touch once upon a time, but it’s looking more like the Midas touch—everything I touch goes wrong. I think my five senses could really use a touch up—or maybe a touchdown to finally bring it home.

September 26th, 2024

Journal Writing

September 26th, 2024

Equestrian Escapades: Beating the Odds (But Not the Horse)

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You know what they say—you shouldn’t beat a dead horse. Frankly, I don’t think you should beat a living horse either. First of all, it’s cruel. Secondly, horses aren’t exactly the best creatures to pick fights with. You never know which one might be Sylvester Stallion, ready to go full Rocky Balboa on you. Next thing you know, after a few rounds with him, you’d look less like a fighter and more like something straight out of The Rocky Horror Picture Show. I mean, the guy did six Rocky movies; I’d be winded after round one. And if you think he’s more of a Rambo type, be careful—because close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades, and neither ends well for you.

If you really must beat a horse, I’d recommend a Trojan one, like in Greek mythology. They say you shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth, but with a Trojan horse, it’s definitely worth a peek—just in case there’s an army hiding inside, ready to ambush you. But beware: opening it could also crash your computer if it turns out to be a Trojan horse virus from a sketchy download, ready to wreak havoc on your system! Either way, it’s safer than swinging at a horse that might be Pegasus. In Greek mythology, he wasn’t just any flying horse—he carried Zeus’s thunderbolts, meaning that striking him could literally result in getting struck by lightning. Whether it’s lightning or a kick from their hooves, mythical or not, getting hit by a mustang really must sting.

If you ever find yourself on an epic quest, you definitely need a trusty horse by your side. I mean, the word ‘quest’ is right there in equestrian. Riding into battle on a donkey just doesn’t have the same heroic flair. I’m not saying Shrek didn’t make it work, but it’s definitely not the traditional knight-in-shining-armor look.

Whether it’s a dead horse or a living one, it’s all a horse a piece. Just be careful—you might stumble upon a horse with a piece. That’s one episode of Gunsmoke I’d rather skip, where the horses are more loaded than the cowboys. A showdown at the O.K. Corral with Quick Draw McGraw? Yeah, I’ll pass on that, thanks.

September 19th, 2024

Journal Writing

September 19th, 2024

The Boss of Me: Mixing Business, Penguins, and Too Much Eggnog

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They say you shouldn’t mix business with pleasure. No, business should always be mixed with displeasure. I don’t know about you, but I’ve yet to meet anyone who’s genuinely happy at their job. If you know someone, please introduce us—I’d love for them to hire me because I’m definitely not thrilled with mine. Although, let’s be honest: the only way I’d ever be happy at my job is if I worked for myself.

Sadly, even if I were my own boss, I’d probably still get fired. “Yeah, we’re going to have to let you go. We asked for a sales report, not a dissertation on The Role of Penguins in Antarctic Traffic Control. And, no, we haven’t forgotten about the office Christmas party incident.” On the bright side, if I were unemployed, I wouldn’t have to deal with rush hour—especially if penguins were out there managing it.

Speaking of that Christmas party, nobody ever said how much figgy pudding was too much figgy pudding. Turns out, washing it down with a gallon of eggnog was also a bad call. I just hope that eggnog wasn’t made from penguin eggs. Live and learn.

Another perk of being out of work: no more suits. Penguins pull off tuxedos way better than I ever could. Besides, it’d be pretty ridiculous to wear a suit just for my cat. It gets even weirder when you realize… I don’t even have a cat. I lost him during the big corporate merger. They shipped him off to our Antarctic office, and thanks to the penguins, he’s probably on a plane somewhere near the North Pole by now, which is not even the right hemisphere. That’s what happens when you trust a flightless bird to control air traffic.

So yeah, maybe they’re right—you really shouldn’t mix business with pleasure, even if you work for yourself. But after all that figgy pudding, I don’t think I’d mix it with eggnog, either.

September 13th, 2024

Journal Writing

September 13th, 2024

The Not-So-Mystical Art of Reading TV

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I always watch TV shows and movies with closed captions turned on. Not because I’m hard of hearing—in fact, I might be soft of hearing, since everything sounds a bit too loud to me. Even a pin dropping sounds like someone just got a strike at the bowling alley. Speaking of which, why do they call it an alley? It sounds like a place where you’d get mugged by a gang of guys wearing matching shirts with their names embroidered on them.

But back to the captions. I like them because they turn a show into a live-action book. But it got me thinking: if these are closed captions, what would open captions be like? Maybe you could change the color or style of the words. Imagine watching a gritty crime drama, but the captions look like they’re written in crayon. It would turn a standoff between a cop and a criminal into something resembling a handmade card from a child, with oversized misspelled words, and a few backwards letters—transforming the tension into something oddly heartwarming. I’m always looking for ways to make suspense a little more ridiculous.

Another perk of closed captions is that I can pretend I have superpowers, like the ability to predict what a character’s going to say next. It’s like I’m a mind reader! Maybe I should brand myself as “The Caption Clairvoyant,” predicting dialogue with eerie accuracy (thanks to the captions, of course). My crystal ball? It would have subtitles too, just in case my clients couldn’t keep up with my ‘predictions.’ But let’s be honest—with my luck, I’d end up giving fortunes like, “You will soon order takeout.” They would probably get a better prediction from the fortune cookie that came with their takeout. At this point, the only future I’m certain of is one where I’m writing captions!

September 6th, 2024

Journal Writing

September 6th, 2024

Shear Madness: When Hair Has Had Enough

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Sometimes, I just want to let my hair down and be carefree. Not that I have much hair to let down these days. But in my dreams, I have long, flowing hair like Fabio. Some guys just have all the locks, and I’m left wondering if I can even believe it’s not butter. But since that fantasy isn’t coming true anytime soon, I’ve got to find other ways to let my hair down—or what’s left of it.

Maybe I’ll start by following the shampoo bottle directions to the letter: lather, rinse, repeat—forever. There’s no better way to disappoint my hair than to keep washing it into oblivion. And, honestly, I’m halfway there already. I get so lost in my deep shower thoughts that I forget whether I’ve rinsed and moved on, or if I’m still lathering up for the first time. My hair must be begging for mercy at this point.

Or perhaps a bold, new haircut is in order—something completely outrageous that screams, “I’ve given up.” A bunhawk, maybe? You know, a man bun with a mohawk twist. It would pair nicely with my disbelief over butter substitutes. I could even go to one of those hip barbershops where a barbershop quartet serenades you with commercial jingles. I’d love to hear them belt out the tune for “I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter” while I’m getting my new ‘do. That’s how I know my hair would really appreciate me.

By now, my hair is probably frazzled and ready to wig out. But if things get a little too hairy, I’ll just brush it off. No need to feel sorry for my hair—it had it combing. After all the times I woke up with bedhead that looked like I’d fought a wind turbine, it’s only fair that my hair finally toupees for its crimes.

September 2nd, 2024

Journal Writing

September 2nd, 2024

Seeing Is Deceiving: A Story of Snakes, Stripes, and Stairs

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Do my eyes deceive me? Yes, yes, they do. I hate when my eyes lie to me. Like the other day, when they tried telling me I could shoot laser beams out of them. Needless to say, that PowerPoint presentation didn’t go as planned. Or the time they swore there was a snake in the yard. I conjured up a heroic battle plan, only to get closer and realize it was just a garden hose taking a leisurely sunbath.

My eyes also have a bad habit of convincing me I look good in an outfit. But when I’m met with stares everywhere I go, I start thinking maybe my outfit should’ve been an infit. What made me believe I could pull off those zebra-pattern footie pajamas? Wearing stripes was so last Fourth of July.

And speaking of stairs, my eyes have tricked me too many times into believing there’s one more step when there isn’t. I’ve mastered the art of the phantom step stumble—a special kind of dance move that involves flailing arms and a dramatic gasp.

Oh, and let’s not forget the time they insisted I’d found Waldo in The Cat in the Hat. Really, Waldo? What would he be doing there? Borrowing the hat for a bold new look? I guess that’s what happens when you take fashion advice from a feline. Then again, they do call it the catwalk for a reason. Of course, if I was walking down it, I would probably do the phantom step stumble.

Maybe Waldo’s eyes were just playing tricks on him too. One day, I’d love to return the favor and play a trick on my eyes. “Hey, peepers, how about a nice spa day? A little cucumber treatment?” Only I’d replace the cucumbers with onions. Let’s see how they like that. Maybe then they would finally stop deceiving me.

August 31st, 2024

Journal Writing

August 31st, 2024

A Millionaire in Seconds

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I’m a millionaire—well, in a manner of speaking. At 40, I’ve clocked in over a million seconds on this planet. Speaking of “in a manner of speaking,” what does that even mean? Does it mean I can conjure a manor just by speaking it into existence? Because that would be amazing! I could use a mansion. After all, I am a seconds millionaire.

But what if you’re a writer? You’re not actually saying the words; you’re writing them. Does that still count? And if it doesn’t, what about those invisible walls mimes keep running into? Maybe they’re not invisible at all—just glass. I wouldn’t want to live in a glass house. They say people in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones, and I’ve been known to throw a few stones. I’ve also thrown a few parties. And a party in a glass house? No, thank you. I’d end up going through a year’s supply of Windex in one day.

And there’s another thing—what if a fire broke out? It’d be like living in a giant casserole dish. Now, I like casserole as much as the next person, but I think I’ll pass on being the main ingredient.

Come to think of it, living in a glass house would be more like living in an aquarium. And I’d need gills for that. Last I checked, I’m no gillionaire. Million seconds or not, I happen to quite like air.

So, in a manner of speaking, even at my ripe old age of a million seconds, it seems the only way I’m getting that dream home is in my dreams.