Writing About Yourself

Many months ago I gave the members of my small, yet resilient Writers' Club a small, yet resilient task - write about thine self! I issued this challenge in the most regal and compelling means I could what with my sore throat, limited lozenges and lack of any natural regal-ness. True story - I was once voted least likely to become king by my grade 3 class in elementary school. But there my writers' club sat, looking at me, then looking away and then looking back again in suspiciously coordinated fashion almost as if to check if I was a figment of their collective imaginations. I wish! And they seemed to be considering my proclamation, my challenge, my desire to make them write or else why do we call ourselves a writers' club, when maybe a sitting club would be more accurate. Before you laugh, a sitting club would be a wonderful idea what with all of the free time the youths of today enjoy and how proficient at sitting they are. Now you may laugh.

I wanted to challenge my club in a way I had never challenged them before (seeing as I had never challenged them at all, that seemed fairly safe). I also wanted them to write and breathe and explore the depths of their humanity in some order; maybe doing all three at the same time if they are feeling particularly cocky and aren't operating heavy duty machinery at the same time. I wanted them to write for themselves, but also for me, as I wanted to learn about what made each of them tick and whether any more of those products were still available at low low prices. Now, I know how this sounds as I did read it aloud, record it and play it back numerous times while enjoying a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice natural sugar at all - I, a hyper-controlling-verging-on-megalomania-but-falling-disappointingly-short writing club organizer, convince my writers to write about themselves only to make intricate and private lists of their strengths, talents and weaknesses just in case that information becomes extremely necessary at some point. Yes, I know exactly how that sounds.

Anyways, the bell sounded and our meeting ended and we went our separate ways. A small part of me felt sad, sort of how a robin must feel when he just can't catch a worm or catches the worm and celebrates just a little bit too veraciously only to realize that the worm was actually a stick. A little known fact: I often compare my own feelings to those of birds for reasons that I'm not able to fully articulate what with my current self-imposed word limit or shaky mental state. As the last student left, I also felt particularly inspired to write and I practically sashayed back to my office (practical sashaying and actually sashaying are as diametrically opposite as you, the reader, chooses to imagine - if you want to envision me actually sashaying while alone in my office, please do! It's my present for you), plunked myself down with the care of a lumberjack, and started typing words like they were going out of style which is much harder than it sounds as that is a very precise means of typing and it is just so challenging to nail.

I just couldn't wait to write about myself as both an example and a cautionary tale for my students. As I began to write I was nearly overwhelmed by emotions. To call how I felt "excitement" would be totally correct. To call what I felt "schoolgirl giddiness", again, would be embarrassingly apt. To call what I felt "a clear sign that my thyroid was acting up again" is yet another example of why I should upgrade from the current quack of a doctor I see whom I only continue to see for the discounted pate. I specialize in cautionary tales, by the way, both in my writing and in my choice of pants. Yes, I felt that if I wrote about myself in my typical style which blends equal parts humour, gravitas and what members of my family playfully refer to as "evidence for the prosecution" that I would inspire the other writers to tell their story or at least "tell' "their" "story" if that made them feel more comfortable. As the leader of our club, I want the other writers to be as comfortable as possible, even going as far as to force them to sit on heavily padded chairs for hours at a time while I fan them with illegally imported leaves of a banana tree. 

So, the days flew by or possibly I was flying or just running really fast while the days stood still. As a young boy, I often tried to fly by running around in my favourite pair of black shorts while flapping my wings and screaming at the top of my lungs, "I'm a bird". It's always been interesting to me how certain cute things we enjoyed as a child become significantly less cute so abruptly on your 21st birthday. Anyways, the next thing I knew, it was Tuesday again and our club was reconvening. The next thing I knew after that was the answer to a joke my daughter told me that I finally understood ("sheep") and the thing after that was not to pour salt into my open wound on my finger, no matter how amazing and therapeutic my wife tells me it will be. Is it just me, or does it always seem to be Tuesday?

The writers sat at around the round table - we had started the year off using a rectangular table and had to switch for geometrical reason. The students looked somber, although my glasses were quitwe smudgy so all bets were off. I so badly want the bets to be on for a change at some point - don't get me started, or go ahead and get me started if it makes you feel like a big boy now. My glasses, in case you didn't know and how would you, are perpetually smudged which starts to feel like a conspiracy after a while especially on those "fun" days when I wake up feeling super paranoid. Once the students were all seated and the "hellos", "what ups?" and "could I have a refill, oh wait a second, this doesn't look at all like the diner I usually frequent on Tuesdays at all" were out of the way, we started our meeting which usually involves a pounding of a gavel, a call to order, a squeeze of a citrus fruit and the release of exactly two pigeons.

I pulled out my computer with as much flair and suspense as one could without risking bodily injury and proceeded to open it, turn it on, wait for a while for the login screen, open a browser, find the document and then, after loudly and erratically clearing my throat multiple times and then almost literally drinking some water, I spoke the first word of my work - it made for quite the compelling five minutes and judging by their reaction, I briefly considered quitting my day job and moving east. I also considered ceasing reading at that point as they seemed to really appreciate my throwing-caution-to-the-wind use of the word "When" as my opening salvo and, honestly, the rest of the piece went significantly and purposely downhill from there anyways.

But I stood, paced around, braved the elements and read like there was no tomorrow or possibly I was reading like my shirt was on fire or, in hindsight, it could have just been my seasonal allergies. I read as if my life depended on it which was highlighted by perfect grammar and diction with the only negatives being my jumpiness at any sudden noise and my inability to stop drooling. After reading my soul-searching piece about myself that was a little too heavy on the actual searching for souls as well as being as tell-all as I could manage without infringing on any copyrights, I sat back and waited for both the accolades I so badly yearned for as well as for one of my students to follow suit.

Silence ensued. No one else wanted to share. I inquired as to why and was met with more silence, only this time accompanied by wide-eyed looks that some would most likely compare to those of deer who are transfixed by oncoming headlights. I, for one,  have ceased all expressions involving deer. It was long overdue. Finally, I was able to squeeze it out of them (no actual squeezing of any kind took place as someone forgot the oranges, again) - they felt that people would be "disgusted" by both their writing and themselves as revealed in the writing. I wondered aloud if that was a tad harsh and that they are almost definitely better at writing than they are giving themselves credit for and that, even if it wasn't amazing, that it is almost physiologically impossible for a listener to be rendered disgusted unless the writing was utterly, completely, graphically and realistically gory which coincidentally describes many of my more pleasant daydreams these days.

But, try as I might, there was just no sharing that day. The students left our meeting one by one much as they'd entered only facing the opposite direction this time. I sat there feeling like a failure, not a complete failure, no, only a very precise and unique type of failure as a writing club leader who had just been unable to inspire his members to write about themselves. As I wondered where to go next and what to do once I got there seeing as I was on a tight, self-imposed budget and waist size, I was flooded with even more ideas for things to write about myself. Ideas, if you were wondering, flood out of me all the time, which is easily one of the top five things I like having flood on me. Fake pig's blood is last. Don't ask. I alternated between wanted to smack my hand hard in frustration against the newly painted wall to hear the unique sound it would invariably make against the recently dried paint and doing some research to see who painted said wall so that I could pick up the phone to congratulate them on quite the good job.

The students just found the task of writing about themselves so difficult, while I have never found writing about myself hard at all, and writing on myself is even easier still (though harder to explain to my wife). For as long as I can remember (which is not saying much), I've been able to sit down, or stand in an attempt to appear taller, and almost literally pour my body and soul into everything I write (note: do not try to actually pour your body and soul into anything unless you have a large amount of Pledge on hand). I'd call my writing "no holds barred", but we'd all know I was lying as there are always some holds that must remain barred (it's far safer that way). I once tried to write on someone else and, hmmm...how to tell this story without sharing too many embarrassing details...let me put it this way, I wasn't allowed to have ice cream for a week.

How am I any different from my group of students, I wondered, aside from me being one person with one set of legs and them having collectively many more legs? Well, I am an adult, or more accurately adult-like or adult-ish. I've lived and loved and removed lint from the dryer - once, wonderfully, all at the same time. I've had experiences, worldly at times, and I've gotten in touch with myself but only while wearing a hazmat suit. I've taken the cliched trips to get to know myself, followed by trips where I tried to forget all that I just learned as it was way too horrifyingly real and should have come with a disclaimer and free nachos. I had reached the mountaintop, yodeled for a long while until the next group got sufficiently bored waiting for their turn to yodel, and then came down the other side a changed man - still a man, in case you were always curious - who knew a thing or two about things.

That must be it, I am just become so comfortable in my own skin (thank you, Dr. Francis!) that I can say or write just about anything about myself, no matter how potentially damaging or stomach-upsetting or obviously-money pandering that I want. I write, I lean against the wall (trying to avoid sliding down the wall as that is hard to explain to my kids why daddy can't stay vertical without their help) and I attempt to capture a smile that in no way is to be confused with smirking as I just don't smirk. The students, on the other hand, are adorably concerned with "how people see them" which explains the rise in camouflage sales these days and is just a part of growing up. When we are young we are often hyper-sensitive to how we come across and writing feels so permanent what with the supposed infinite storage space that Google offers these days. If we document something then it becomes real while if we refuse to write anything down, ever, then no one can point accusing fingers or sticks used to clean fish tanks at us claiming they "know" us.

Even though it is easy now, it wasn't always easy, to write about myself without worrying about what people would say or wonder or huddle in poorly-lit corners whispering about (which only draws more attention by the way). I guess, over time, as I've grown and matured and needed a strong prescription, I've become an open book. Here's how I think it happened. Initially I wasn't a book. Then I slowly became a book (I'll spare you the sordid details). Now I'm an open book except on cold winter's evenings, when I more closely resemble a pile of old clothes. And this transformation will happen for the young writers in my club as well. They too will mature and open up. They too will find themselves and feel the need to write/whine about it and not only when a confession is forced out of them. They will reach a point of self-realization and discovery where they will be able to share with a frankness that is so refreshing it will feel like a light mist has been sprayed on us all. Though they weren't read for my task at the moment, one day they will be and it will be glorious. All I ask for is a simple thanks or a super-complex and well-produced thanks if they have enough time and resources.

ultimate story part 2

I have been playing ultimate for 28 years. I am also a writer. After a significant amount of time trying to figure out how to combine these two skills, I settled on writing a series of stories about my life as an ultimate player which, if all goes well, will also be turned into a groundbreaking psychedelic rock opera entitled Tommy unless someone has beat me to that already.

For those who missed part 1, it can be found here

Part 2: Learning the Game

The year was 1989.

I had just played my first ultimate game and I loved it.

In one sense, it was like my entire world had come into focus and, in another much more accurate sense, I had just recently upgraded my prescription glasses. In the first few minutes of my first game, I felt that I had finally found my sport after years of fumbling footballs, getting cut from basketball teams and being pummeled in the face and stomach with soccer ball after soccer ball.

And though I was new, and had no real idea of what I was getting into, I was ready.

I had my cleats (the infinitely heavy, hightop Nike Land Sharks), I had a disc (my parents' much-used orange Whammo), I had some slightly-too-sheer shorts (fashion choice) and I had gumption, or at least I thought it was gumption - turns out it was heartburn. And I was ready to dominate on the field using my cleats, disc, shorts and whatever else it took or, failing that, I was ready to participate in the hopes that ribbons would be awarded to all at the end of the season unlike the horrors of little league baseball.

The problem was, as I realized midway through my second game a week later, that I couldn't really do anything.

At all.

Defense was impossibly hard, catching as an endless adventure, marking the thrower was a mystery and throwing? Let's just say that my throws, while horribly laughable, helped make my teammates' throws seem infinitely better in comparison.

Sure I showed up looking the part but nothing I was doing on the field would been considered 'playing' or 'helping' or 'being a teammate' by even the most generous and hopefully near-sighted observer. I spent my time in this second game, running around resembling some sort of farm animal being led to slaughter, and holding the disc as if it was potentially explosive, and seeming scared and "freaked out" and "white with panic" when attempting to guard someone. It was clear to my teammates that I wasn't going to be "bringing home the championship trophy" for us any time soon despite the clearly-homemade matching t-shirts I had made for the team before the game that said as much.

I had to face the facts (something I never did - seemed a tad bit aggressive), I could either be satisfied being a glorified cheerleader, something that just a week earlier I would have yelped 'YES' to if offered, or I'd have to put aside my ego (fits in a small handbag), admit my failings (I prepared notes!) and put in some hard work (I didn't know the meaning of hard work, literally).

As I lay on the ground, stretching, attempting to both catch my breath and not let on to anyone near by how hard it was for me to catch my breath, my ultimate future flashed before my eyes. In this future, I saw myself having pinpoint long throws, awe-inducing endzone grabs, graceful leaps into the air and, for some reason, hair like a pony. Different story for a different day.

But how to get from point A to point B? How to go from this young man of 20, laying on the ground writhing, to this dream version of my future self?

I wanted this future as badly as I wanted pizza for dinner, or maybe slightly more but it was hard to tell as I was really hungry for pizza. I sat up and resolved then and there to work harder than I'd ever worked before, which wasn't saying much, but I had to start somewhere. I looked around and realized that I was alone on the grass and that everyone had gone home hours ago leaving me a cryptic note on my forehead saying "we got bored, hope you're okay."

I was okay, really okay. It was time to get to work.

After with conferring with my friends, who were like Gods of ultimate in my eyes due to their rippling muscles, white teeth and cryptic natures, I made a plan.

Step 1: Learn to throw.
Step 2: Learn to catch.
Step 3: Learn to play defense.
Step 4: Learn the rules.
Step 5: Only speak monosyllabically whenever possible to maintain my sole focus on steps 1-4.

So I grabbed a friend and threw as much as I could. We always had a disc with us and we threw for hours everyday, in parks, on the beach, on our busy side street playing the fun game of trying not to hit cars or trees or pedestrians, in that order. And yet, despite the hours of throwing, progress was very slow.

And then I realized, after someone told me repeatedly via direct message (which was exceedingly hard back in 1989 - involved tons of driving and folding of paper) that it wasn't good enough just to throw, but that I needed to learn to throw properly. Ahhhh, 'proper' throwing! It all made sense.

I wanted to learn from the best, so I sought out the best throwers and decided to copy their every move. I started by taking mental notes, but my progress was slow so I took the next step. How was I to know that videotaping him in his backyard without his written or verbal consent was crossing some sort of line?

Despite my best intentions, my throws wobbled and veered off in random directions. It wasn't safe to be around me while I was throwing if you weren't dressed for a construction site, and even then. With each turfed throw and broken nail and family of ducks rudely displaced from their home, I wondered if I was long for this sport regardless of my passion.

Our team practiced once a week at a local elementary school. Each week, a different teammate would take their turn attempting to remove the wobble from my forehand, to no avail. They would often have these long, hilarious chats in front of me, dissecting my flick as if it was an under-anesthesia patient in the ER. I tried and tried to straighten and smooth it out and, along the way, experimented with a variety of grips and mental states, and still that disc refused to obey even after I resorted to embarrassing begging.

At the practices, we'd run through a few drills and scrimmage as we attempted to get better for our game the following Wednesday. I, for one, was tired of being the worst player on my team by any measurement used. Being a laughing stock was getting old regardless of how cute and infectious the laughter was. I still wanted to become a star, but I was even willing to compromise (my middle name!) and become "this side of competent" or "less below average" or, if I was lucky, "good".

Scrimmages were the answer! I needed reps and experience and layers of sunscreen. I needed to get knocked down, only to get up again, and then get knocked down again before wondering if I had concussion type symptoms. I was determined to use these scrimmages to get ahead and, despite my slow progress, that even the nicest teacher would label as "nice try" on my report card, I was still just so excited to learn, sort of like an excited drooling and yappy puppy dog, which I brought along to a practice for comparison's sake only.

And I was determined to be a sponge (harder than it sounds) and soak up all of the suggestions and comments and sudsy water I could get. The advice was as frequent as it was bewildering.

One person told me "I was running too much", while another told me to "get on my horse".

It was suggested that "I would only improve by attempting throws in game situations", while someone else suggested that I should "never throw forward for any reason whatsoever because we are trying to win."

One teammate offered that I should "fake left and cut right", while the same teammate told me that she wouldn't be accepting any more rides home if I continued that practice while driving.

As I sat afterwards at my parent's dining room table, nursing my injuries both real and imaginary, I whined and whined about how hard it was to be a beginner.

Even though I was only 20, it had been a long time since I had been "the new guy" at anything and it was frustrating! The other sports I played (tennis, squash and racquetball), I was proficient at and had the confidence, attitude and leg warmers to match. It had been years since I was flat out bad at something and it was constantly humbling to be so inconsistent on defense, as a thrower or while attempting to secure the rare frisbee thrown my way. (Note: a disc thrown out of pity is hard to distinguish from a regularly-thrown disc while sweating profusely.)  

I wanted to improve so badly.

I wanted to really learn this game.

I wanted to be an asset on the field.

And sure my friends cheered me on and were supportive, mostly, but my interest started to waver by the end of my first season. It is just so hard to stick with something, anything, you are learning until you can see that you are progressing and improving and not beating your head against the wall, even if you are (I wasn't). I couldn't see any progress, at all. Despite not wanting to be labelled a quitter, I was debating an indefinite hiatus, a change of course, a ride off into the proverbial sunset (real sunset way too bright).

But, I didn't.

Now, I'm not wanting this to sound like a made-for-TV movie unless you are an interested Hollywood executive, then I'm all ears (two, to be exact), but this story does have an overly-sappy happy ending. Somehow, against all odds (that's right, my 'friends' were gambling on it!), I actually started getting it.

Throws became crisper and ended up where they were intended, cuts more purposeful and powerful, discs were snatched repeatedly out of the air and defense...well, at least the rest of my game was improving. After hours and hours and hours of practice, slowly skills started to rub off on me like an infectious disease (not that I would know anything about that). As each game came and went, I slowly realized that I was getting it. And as my skills and confidence grew, my role on my team shifted from being "just some guy" to "even though he is just some guy, he is wide open and he screws up a lot less than he used to" to "the left-handed, red-haired assassin" (to be clear, no one aside from me, alone in my bedroom writing in my diary by flashlight ever uttered those words).

I got thrown to on a regular basis, became a threat to score, finally put two and two together (four!) and started generating some real spin on my throws and cracked open the secret chest revealing all of the benefits of being a lefty. The wobble, the endless and clueless running around and the general hopelessness was in the rearview mirror. My first set of cleats were replaced with a lighter version, my old frisbee was replaced by an Ultrastar, and my shorts were still slightly too revealing.

I was ready for the next step.

Tournaments.

Stay tuned for part 3 of my ultimate story coming soon.

A Little Too Concerned With My Bladder

When my kids ask me questions I don't immediately know the answers to, I contemplate looking up actual real information for them, but I usually don't, as it is important that they don't get too smart too quickly.

I often crack eggs in the kitchen imagining that I am releasing the yolks from their windowless prison, when in fact I'm just making a mess on the floor that someone will have to clean up before I make pancakes.

When I'm driving home from work, I often wish that I owned a tank, not so I could smash the other cars in front of me, though that thought has occasionally crossed my mind too, but more so I can be prepared in case of war.

I don't know why scaring someone with hiccups is all well and good, but scaring them when carrying a tray of wine glasses or when tightrope walking is generally frowned upon.

Sometimes I'd love to travel back in time to the days of the cavemen and, after learning their rudimentary language and teaching them about basic economic principles, offer them all discounted haircuts and pedicures, but I keep being told that changing the past can have a serious impact on the present.

I once thought I heard the owl call my name, but it turned out just to be a friend of mine who looks particularly owl-like in certain lighting.

Whenever I get frustrated with someone at work and want to yell or punch a hole in the wall or throw my phone, instead I make sounds like a monkey which both gets them to leave while also allowing me to hone my impressions that I perform on weekends that often result in free bananas.

People often tell me my idea takes the cake, but when I look around I never see any cake, I wonder why I am spending so much time thinking up these ideas in the first place.

I often dream of a world where war and crime has ended and everyone is living in peace and that no one ever goes hungry, but cable TV hasn't been invented, which always leaves me quite conflicted upon waking.

It has been said that no man is an island, to which I always counter, what about that guy?

I have always been told that it takes a village to raise a child, but no one told me that you can't just drop off your child at the nearest village on a whim. Talk about your false advertising.

Whenever someone tells me to look at a situation through their eyes, I wonder if they've truly thought through the ramifications of that offer.

I can only imagine that the first day in hell would be excruciatingly horrible, as would the second and the third, but by the fourth day you'd probably have settled in a bit and started making lifelong friends.

An old man once told me the inspiring and often heroic story of his life which was truly heartwarming and intriguing, but I still just wanted a large pizza with tomatoes and mushrooms.

I enter my room and see a single sock on my bed, which is odd, but not worth dwelling on. I enter the room again later that day and see 5 socks, just laying there doing nothing. Once again, I enter my room around dinner time and the bed is covered with socks and, as far as I can tell, they are either plotting their revenge or attempting to stage a sock-version of HMS Pinafore. Finally, I go into my room and bedtime and there is a single sock again, only this time appearing huge and quite bloated with a guilty look on its face.

When talking during meetings or conferences at work, I often abruptly stop near the ends of key sentences and rush to the washroom as I believe everyone would benefit from a little more suspense in their lives. The only downside is that people are a little too concerned with my bladder.

I often walk in the woods and come across forks in the roads which raises a lot of questions.

As much fun as it sounds, pulling the wool over someone's eyes isn't all that great especially when you consider all of the time and money it takes to procure the necessary wool as well as knowing someone whose eyes need concealing and then all of the scheduling it would take to arrange to meet without letting them know what was happening.

I don't care what others say, you just can't win a debate with a cactus, especially that a-hole of a cactus across the street.

Some days I sit on the beach contemplating the pains and struggles of human existence and other days I just sit mindlessly on the beach. Pretty similar days actually.

Mentally Flossing My Own Teeth

I was pulling out my daughter's tooth, dreaming of the Karaoke competition next week, mentally flossing my own teeth.

You constructed a human-sized hamster wheel and spend weeks running in it. There is no way the hamster should have all of the fun.

I am running after the bus, sweating profusely, speaking in tongues (note to self - trying using fewer tongues).

You are walking on a sandy beach, looking for crab shells. Your grand plan is to make a life-sized crab-styled mosaic art piece of a girl jumping on a trampoline.  

I count my toes, then recount them and finally count them a third time. After a nutritional snack, I repeat. Later in the day, I am clearly bored by this activity, so I start counting my fingers.

You are climbing a tree. Each new branch you step on feels like a new height achieved, a new step, a higher bar. You feel such a sense of accomplishment and  strikingly pretty.

The grass seems to move rhythmically in the wind, almost like the dried grass skirt of a hula dancer. The leaves blow to and fro in the air. A thin layer of dust is blown off the basketball court. I sit there taking it all in, playing with my Barbies.

You are so cool.

I imagine that I am a rabbit and that the little girl standing at my door trying to sell me Girl Guide cookies is a ravenous fox. She seems fairly perplexed when I vigorously hop away.

You park your car and race to your house to answer the phone. As you fumble with your keys, you break into a Broadway-style song-and-dance.

I am learning Latin in the bath so when I sink my enemies boats I can gloat properly.

You are in Rome looking at magnificent art work. Next week you plan to go to your mother's house to mock her. Then you will return to Rome looking for a hug.

I sit on my chair laughing and laughing and laughing. Tomorrow I will try to laugh standing up. If that works I will sell my chair.

Water drips from the kitchen tap while you try to sleep. Drip, drip, drip. Finally, after what seems like hours, you turn on the tap in the bathroom full blast drowning out the drip. Ahhhhh, peace at last.

I move in slow motion. When will the madness end, or at least speed up again?

In your dreams you are being tortured by a horrible prison guard who is barking at you for answers. You awake, startled, surrounded by stuffed animals, longing for some lemonade either for drinking or for setting up a lemonade stand as it is quite clear that business would be great.

I am walking down the street in front of my house, eyeing everyone who passes by either empathically or pathetically based on what I think they need at the moment. This fun activity quickly leads to a killer headache. 

After months of planning you break into the library in the middle of the night and set up a huge fort made out of books. Your initial idea was to make a dominos-like display but you are trying to become less predictable over time.

I am trying to lead life more fluorescent-ally. 

You have this great idea to buy bags and bags of marbles and then mail them to me marble each day. I am forced to go buy bags to put them in and I know that was your plan all along. Touché.

I am starting to worry more and more, and I wonder if I should just give up. As a last ditch effort, I drop everything and spend the afternoon on the bench press to work on my pecs because that is what He would have wanted.

You start to act like a king all the time, wearing a crown, acting pompous, using an excessive amount of nutmeg.

I am riding on the back of a motorcycle whipping around tight corners in the Brazilian forest. Where am I going? Who is chasing me? Who is driving the motorcycle? Damn I smell good.

You buy a huge block of ice and melt it with an iron. You immediately realize the error in your ways and attempt to refreeze it. You've never made this mistake before, and you may do it again because it was actually quite fun.

I am sitting in my room doodling. What starts out as mindless, aimless, meandering drawing slowly turns into a succinct and eloquent solution to the problems between whales and seals. A radical solution that the world is just not ready for yet.

You are filled with equal parts remorse, middle-aged ness and nausea. You are nothing if not good at balancing your feelings.  

I decide to start making my own clothes out of sheep's wool. I start with a sweater, then a pair of socks, some pants and finally a hat. I am so proud of my new duds. Life is incredible! New friends, VIP status and a big raise, but inside I know it is so wrong. A few days later I give myself a shear.

You look into my eyes and smile. I look at your smile and we break into a spontaneous waltz.