The first time I did a Burning Joints post it was meant to be a one-off, an excuse to tell some old stories and revel in my own softball-playing acumen – a proficiency that has me leading the league in triples, which isextra-impressive considering that nobody keeps stats...this triple-lead I just know intuitively.
But I digress.
I must have looked away for a second, because when I turned back, Ms. White Liar had started a "Composition Challenge" and flown the coop to Australia; I was left as a "contributor" who didn’t contribute, and an earthquake of shame rocked my very foundation down to its hyperbolic roots.
And so, here I sit...dazed, befuddled, crying, rocking back-and-forth in the shattered glass of unwritten anecdotes, pawing at the torn pictures of myself smiling during happier times on some long-forgotten roller-coaster at some two-bit, half-assed fair, wailing into the ether at the myriad gods who let this happen, whoallowed me to forego my responsibilities for the vague promise of solipsistic-contentment, tearing at my clothes in the small hope that the documentation of dynamic-sounding physical activity will allow me to further compromise the original intent of this post, stalling like a seven-year-old Honda with liquefied marshmallows for engine-coolant, shaking my fist at the spectres of Talent and Promise like a supervillain in the throes of being "foiled again", wishing like a ten-year-old on his birthday that I could come up with similes that didn’t immediately conjure up student-written three-act plays from tenth-grade, scaring myself with both the resultant hiccups of excessive fist-shaking & simile-making and the insane hiccup-remedies that are far more terrifying than the unpleasantness of silly, little hiccups...
If I’m looking at The Quirk Quotient as the impetus of this madness, which I am, and I look up "quirk" in the dictionary, which I did, and I see the words "subterfuge" & "evasion" as explanations, which I do, then this is a perfectly acceptable contribution.
If I hadn’t, didn’t, or don’t, then this is, perhaps, a complete pile of shit.
As they say in horse-racing and hermaphroditic circumcisions, it’s "too close to call".