A SCRIVENER’S PRAYER
My wounds, they gush
But my nib, it bleeds
I pray it never heals
There’s ink a plenty in my veins
May my nib always bleed
And my blood always stain.
If anyone ever says, “I’m just doing my job,” in their defense, they are likely in the wrong—not always—but it’s a safe bet (and more than likely, they are soulless, animusless, automatons).
On a completely unrelated level, I think TV comedy needs more moments where a protagonist is running on a treadmill, looks to their left (ALWAYS their left), notices something shocking (depending on the context), stops running, and then is flung off the treadmill. We need some more of those. You know. Because I don’t think we’ve explored every freaking nuance of that scenario.
Friday was my 10 year high school reunion.
Now I have a craving to watch Grosse Pointe Blank.
I didn’t get to kill any international assassins at my reunion. But I did have a fountain pen at the ready. You try killing someone with a ballpoint pen. It’s cruel to both you and your victim.