“Getting a tattoo gives you the same high as running.” Yup, that’s what my friend told me. Having never gotten anything from running but the woozy joy of a deflated lung, I had no idea what she was talking about. If that was a high, no wonder I said no to drugs. I never had a tattoo either.
What the hell is she talking about?
That’s not what I said. I’m too cool for that. I said, “Uh-huh….” Yup, I sounded two-scoops of pralines-n-cream intelligent, so I slathered on the cherry sauce: “I give blood.” I know, I’m a conversational non-sequitur treat. Everybody just dig in!
Thant’s how some of my conversations get, especially when I’m talking to somebody I want to talk to. I’m interested, but I don’t know what to say or how to relate. I say something that translates into, “I have no idea what I’m talking about.” I did though. I knew. I just figured that giving blood was similar. I mean, if I can have a needle jab euphoria, I’m sure that there’s an exsanguination high. Don’t believe me? Try completing a 45-minute workout after they cork the vein; I guarantee you that you will see God.
Bloodletting, that brings great wisdom. Leeching works too, but I prefer a hot shower. I’m a shower thinker. It’s true! When I stand naked in the shower, I can’t help but find something new. The cool thing is that I can shower more than once every 8 weeks—and people appreciate that I do! Showers allow me more time for free thought. What’s more, the shower doesn’t require blood loss, marathon running, or Gatling-gun needles poking my arm like an antsy four-year-old.
Momomomomomomomomomom….
I’d write my blogs in the shower if the monitor didn’t mist, and the water got all electrical tickly.
Still, that’s not what my friend likes. She prefers endorphin highs. It’s ok, we all pick our needle pricks. Some people marry them.
Speaking of such things, I’ll bet you’re wondering where this blog is going, huh?
What the hell is Rob talking about?
I’m talking conversationally. I’m talking conversation. What’s the first thing we do when we meet new people? Most people turn to talk. Me, I spin around like Wonder Woman and get naked.
“Welcome to our writers’ group. I’ll be your bare host.”
Yeah, Barnes and Nobel asked that I leave my clothes on for any further meetings. I don’t know why; I was a conversation starter and I definitely gave people something to write home about. Besides, I hate cold conversations. I never know what to say to somebody I’ve never spoken to before. Invariable, I stick with what I know. I say something stupid.
“This one time at band camp…”
Coming up in February, I’m attending a writers’ conference. Those are great things, even though nobody gets naked--At least not in the lobby. It’s a writer’s schmooze-fest. We go, we see, we beg for publication. It’s glad-handing and mad-libbing galore. I’m good at those. Those are business. I’m selling me.
With people, it’s personal. It’s also social. I’ll get a chance to talk to other writers. People who enjoy the same things I do; people who enjoy shower thinking. Can I skip that part?
See, we writers are a solitary lot: we like to park our cars alone. It makes us brooding and mysterious. That’s how you can tell the real writers from the wannabes. The wannabes wave bar napped apple-tinis, while chatting about every sentence they ever wrote. The real writers slouch in a booth, nursing tumbler of Jack, copying every word for their next obnoxious character.
I may not be a real writer, but I’m pretentious and brooding like the best of them. I think that qualifies me for publication. It doesn’t qualify me to socialize with strangers.
See, since the divorce, I’ve kept to my hermitage and avoided the public. Now I’m going out and it’s kinda scary.
My tattooed friend thinks it’s good for me. “Good for you!” she says. She sounds like she means it.
“Couldn’t I just get naked instead?”
“What?”
See? And that’s just how I talk to friends. Imagine what I’m like with people I don’t know.
“Wanna see my naked eye?”
Yeah, I think I’ll just hang out in the shower and think.
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