Category: Writing

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.

August 22nd, 2024

Journal Writing

August 22nd, 2024

Chain Mail and Coffee Tables: A Middle-aged Fable

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Recently, I had a stark realization: I’ve officially entered the realm of middle age. What does that even mean? Should I be wearing a suit of armor and slaying dragons? Because, honestly, I don’t even like wearing regular suits, let alone ones that could double as a medieval frying pan. The next time I’m dragged to a formal event, don’t be surprised if I show up in chain mail. And no, I’m not talking about those annoying chain mail letters that guilt you into forwarding them to ten friends or else—though, come to think of it, that would be a unique fashion statement.

As for the dragon-slaying bit, do I really need to go all St. George on some poor mythical creature? I mean, I am middle-aged, after all. Shouldn’t I be looking for simpler solutions? Like maybe just playing with the dragon instead? A nice game of fetch sounds more my speed. But what do you throw for a dragon, exactly? A Dragon Ball Z? They don’t exactly sell dragon-sized frisbees at the local pet store. And while we’re at it, training the dragon could be fun—I’ve seen How to Train Your Dragon enough times to know a few tricks. We could even become besties. Or beasties.

I imagine us lounging by the castle moat, listening to some bard strumming “Greensleeves” on his lute, while the dragon toasts marshmallows with its fire breath for s’mores. I could get used to this middle-aged gig. That is, until some evil warlock shows up, kidnaps a princess, and everyone starts looking at me like I’m supposed to do something about it. Just because I’m a dragon whisperer doesn’t mean I can mutter some magical words under my breath and defeat a wizard with a well-timed “shh!” I’m no good at fighting. I can’t even fight off sleep—close my eyes, and its goodnight.

Speaking of knights, I’d definitely need a band of them if there’s any hope of rescuing that princess. But instead of a Round Table, the best I can offer is my slightly stained coffee table. Of course, then they’d expect coffee—and probably a coffee cake to go with it. Before you know it, we’re all sitting around, sipping lattes, sharing stories about back pain, and completely forgetting there’s a princess in need of saving. Maybe this middle-aged thing isn’t as glamorous as it sounds after all.

August 21st, 2024

Journal Writing

August 21st, 2024

M&M Mayhem: A Seagull's Mischief on Paper

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Whenever I write a lowercase ‘m,’ it always looks like a seagull to me. I know that can’t be right because “seagull” clearly starts with a ‘c,’ not an ‘m.’ But it’s hard to shake that image. Every time I see an ‘m,’ I picture those little wings in flight. And if one ‘m’ looks like a seagull, just imagine what happens when you write a mammoth number of them—you end up with a whole flock of ‘m’s soaring across the page. If you ever get a whole flock of them together, don’t be surprised if they suddenly start belting out, “And I ran. I ran so far away,” while mysteriously gravitating towards the nearest body of water.

Now, here’s something to ponder: if seagulls are hanging out by a lake instead of the sea, can you really call them seagulls anymore? Wouldn’t that make them lakegulls? I’d say if you’re having lakegull problems, it’s probably time to call a lawyer. But honestly, all of this trouble could be avoided if we just got rid of the letter ‘m’ altogether. Then again, what would happen to M&M’s? I’ll tell you exactly what would happen: the seagulls would swoop in and fly off with them. That’s what.

Trust me, the last thing you want is seagulls with a sugar high on the loose. You’d have candy-coated chaos, with feathered fiends dive-bombing anyone holding a snack, leaving a trail of colorful shells in their wake. It wouldn’t stop there either—next, they’d be going for your cola. And before you know it, you’ve got caffeinated seagulls buzzing around like winged pinballs, jittering and squawking at double speed.

You ever play pinball with a seagull? I wouldn’t recommend it. They have no sense of direction, and they’re notorious for tilting the machine—plus, they’re always trying to steal the extra ball! And that’s how I got kicked out of Chuck E. Cheese, which is a shame because I rather enjoyed their pizza. At least when the seagull didn’t seize that from me too.

Now I’m banned for life, all because one sugar-crazed seagull couldn’t resist a slice of pizza. It’s probably for the best though—I’d hate for them to catch me writing another ‘m’ and set off a whole new frenzy. So, if you ever spot a seagull eyeing your meal, take my advice—just let it go. It’s safer to lose a snack than to tangle with a pizza-loving, cola-fueled bird on a mission.

August 17th, 2024

Journal Writing

August 17th, 2024

Jest Laugh & Beyond: Ventures in Funny Business

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People often say, “And no funny business.” But what if funny business is exactly what you’re in? I’ve always thought it would be a riot to own one of those old-fashioned gag gift shops—the kind where the shelves are stocked with whoopee cushions, fake vomit, and cans with spring-loaded snakes. I’d call it Jest Laugh & Beyond, with a slogan that practically dares you to get silly: “Fill your bag with gags at Jest Laugh & Beyond. You’d be an April Fool not to take advantage of these deals. You’ll prank me later.”

But maybe I need to embrace the digital age and go virtual. I could launch an online store for all the digital jokers out there. I’d call it Gagabytes, the site for all your dot comedy needs. You can also do a search for us on Giggle. Our homepage would proudly declare, “We’re always pun-line!”

And if neither of those ideas fly, why not go down to earth—literally—and start a funny farm? Picture this: a sprawling ranch filled with a laughing stock of livestock. I’d raise dreadlocked donkeys, earless goats, naked neck chickens, and miniature cows that look like they belong in a Fisher-Price barnyard playset. The farm would grow square watermelons and rainbow corn, and every weekend, we’d host performances by the Llama Drama Club. This troupe of llamas, complete with costumes and props, would reenact Shakespeare’s greatest hits out in the pasture—think Hamlet, A Midsummer Night’s Cream, King Steer, and Much A-moo About Nothing. Of course, the concession stand would sell rainbow popcorn and miniature milkshakes made from the milk of our tiny cows. We would call it a Milkshakespeare.

So, I say, “Yes to funny business!” In fact, I’d fully embrace it. Who wouldn’t want to start their day with a hearty laugh courtesy of a dreadlocked donkey? Or end it watching llamas give their best Shakespearean soliloquies? And let’s not forget the joy of biting into a piece of rainbow popcorn while sipping a miniature milkshake—both as colorful and quirky as the farm itself.

The funny farm would be more than just a place to chuckle—it would be a sanctuary of silliness, where every corner is designed to make you smile. From the pasture to the produce, it’s a world where the ridiculous reigns supreme and every day is a festival of fun. So, whether it’s Jest Laugh & Beyond, Gagabytes, or my down-to-earth funny farm, I’m all in on the business of bringing joy. After all, the world could always use a little more laughter, and I’m just the person to deliver it—one prank, giggle, and moo at a time.

August 16th, 2024

Journal Writing

August 16th, 2024

The Art of the Missed Quip

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I’ve never been great at thinking on my feet—or on my head, for that matter. My specialty seems to be thinking on my back, because it’s only when I’m lying in bed that the perfect comeback finally pops into my mind. By then, of course, the moment’s long gone, and all I can do is sigh and think, “Man, I wish I’d said that.”

I just don’t know when to quip. I’m so hopeless at quipping that I’ve considered booking a stay at one of those “retort resorts.” They offer a course called “Jesting While Fencing,” which sounds promising. After all, some of the best wordplay happens during swordplay, right? My wisecracks aren’t just cracked—they’re completely shattered. Every time someone gives me lip, I wish I could respond with something clever and tongue-in-cheek. Instead, it’s more like teeth-in-tongue because I always end up biting my tongue after something dumb slips out.

I’ve even thought about hiring someone to write my comebacks for me. You know, a little quip pro quo. But alas, I’m always late to the repartee, and I’ve accepted that I’ll never master the art of the taunt. My “bon mot” is more like “bon not.” The only thing I know how to roast is potatoes, and even those don’t always turn out right.

Honestly, I make a mockery out of mockery. But as I look back on what I’ve written, I realize this whole thing is just one big self-roast. Maybe that’s been the secret all along—insulting myself before anyone else gets the chance. And when they look at me in bewilderment, I’ll just shrug and quip, “Hey, I’m only kidding myself.”

Lost Somewhere

Poetry Writing

Lost Somewhere

By

Once, my spirit wandered free and bold,
Pine-scented winds wove through the trees,
The Rockies stood, silent and old,
A fresh snow kissed each peak.

In the stillness, on that lofty throne,
I sat, a pilgrim to realms unseen,
Cross-legged in lotus, the world’s voice a drone,
While my soul floated like a lily, serene.

I feasted off the land, its purest green,
And drank from the stream where time is slow,
Each drop a memory, each leaf a buried dream,
In a world that’s both familiar and unknown.

We joined hands as the light began to fade,
Sang our hopes to the darkening sky,
But our prayers scattered like whispers in the shade,
Lost somewhere between the earth and the sigh.

Conversations in the Garden

Poetry Writing

Conversations in the Garden

By

The elm trees sway under August’s breath,
The sun, a lion with its mane ablaze,
Watches over Summer and Autumn—
Two sisters meeting in the garden’s quiet dusk.
They sip on rosé, tasting memories in each drop,
While crickets play their twilight song.
Their words, soft and fleeting, drift like shadows,
As they wait for their brother, Winter,
Who will soon lay his frost across the earth.
Daffodils now solemnly bow their heads,
As leaves, in their silent fall,
Take on the colors of change.
A chill slips through what has come to pass,
As the elder sky wraps itself in black,
Preparing for the long night ahead.

Harvesting Dreams

Poetry Writing

Harvesting Dreams

By

In the quiet twilight, dreams take their flight,
A stealthy owl, guiding through the darkest night.
With wings that whisper secrets of the skies,
He soars in silence, ever so wise.

He brings to life what our hearts confide,
Turning wishes into a radiant light.
A lantern glowing in the shadowed times,
Illuminating paths where hope still climbs.

Towards a world of dreams intertwined,
Where aspirations grow, pure and divine.
Like fruit on the vine, ripe and sweet,
From the seeds in our minds, we proudly reap.

August 7th, 2024

Journal Writing

August 7th, 2024

Chronically Late: The Misfortunes of a Trendsitter

By

They say time is money, so why am I poor? I mean, that can’t be good, right? Maybe it’s because I tend to be late. And by late, I don’t mean fashionably late; I have no fashion sense. My style is like boho-chic meets business casual. It’s as if I’m trying to make a statement that I’m against conformity while simultaneously wanting to fit in. It’s very confusing. I think I’m more of a trendsitter than a trendsetter, meaning I sit and wait on a trend until it’s no longer trendy anymore. I’m always late jumping on the bandwagon, and then everyone is like, “Dude, that was so last year.”

One thing I’m not late for is a party. I swear my internal clock is set to party time. However, I do tend to stay too late, especially when it’s a birthday party. I’ve found that sometimes they’ll give me leftover food and cake just to get me to leave. It’s like they’ve figured out my kryptonite: the promise of free cake.

I wish I wasn’t late for the early bird special at restaurants. Although, given the old adage, “the early bird catches the worm,” I have to wonder: do they serve spaghetti made out of worms? I wouldn’t know because I’ve never made it to an early bird special. It’s probably a good thing because I would probably open a can of worms with the restaurant if I told everyone their ‘early bird special’ might just involve actual worms. That would definitely complicate my chances of getting a free dessert! Knowing my luck, the dessert would be mud pie. Speaking of worms though, I’m not in any hurry to become worm food myself.

Sometimes, I think I’ll even be late for my own funeral, but who really wants to be on time for that? When the time comes, I want to call the undertaker and say, “You know I’m going to be just a few years late, right?” I’m sure the undertaker will understand. In fact, he’ll probably expect it, considering my track record.

And speaking of track records, I think my personal best is showing up a solid 45 minutes late to a meeting because I got lost in the black hole of the internet, reading about the history of the spork. Fascinating stuff, but not exactly time well spent. No wonder I’m poor.