Today, I came to work. I sat in my car. I took a deep breath. Then, I asked a question to the higher powers that be. “Higher powers that be”, I said, “how much longer to I have to be in this bowel-of-the-world job you tossed to me like chicken feed?”

At the exact same moment, belly acrobats launched their daily sitting-in-the-car-at-work routine, in a place not too far from my own bowel of the world.

It took the powers that be, precisely one hour and twenty-six minutes to answer my question and they spoke to me, of course, in the language of divine inspiration. The reply: “Until such time, dear child, as you can sufficiently capture the quintessence of dysfunction to which we are subjecting you and deliver it to a mass readership for their enlightened entertainment. We are hopeful that it shall be complete with lots of verbal decoration and run on sentences. We know you can fashion this sort of thing.”

Huh. The acrobats were silenced. Certainly, they were grossly insulted that their services may no longer be needed and decided to pack up and move to new internal continents. Because they are anarchists (though in this case, much to my benefit), a fire in the belly was suddenly ignited.

A new type of mania, if not hysteria, seemed to grip me. I googled “How to write a book for dummies”. After all, let’s just skip the idea of starting with articles and go for the gusto! However, I couldn’t find that dummies actually want to write books. Eventually, I stumbled upon Randy Ingermanson’s 10 Step Snowflake Method to Writing a Novel. Genius. Genius. Genius. With a PhD, he must be a literary oracle. Curiously, I reviewed the article and set it aside.

My mind swelled with fantasy and imagination. I was taken to that place in the sea where Pisceans go to escape reality for a while. I swam around in circles and flipped like a dolphin, telling myself that I would now continue the tradition bestowed upon me by my paternal grandmother. We never met, but family mythology dictates that she was an aspiring writer.

I indulged myself a little more. Before too long, I was having visions and contemplating the existence that they inspired…I will make the New York Times Bestseller List with my first novel, make lots of money, be on Dancing With the Stars….not forgetting to rule the world. Then, I will have a reality show and become as happy as Tori and Dean at the end of season four. Ha!

Even in my stupor, I was capable of recognizing a thought or two that had become too tangential. So, now I shall endeavor to return to the main point of all this bluster. A little piece of entertainment for you, inspired by some of the work I do when I’m not flipping in the waves.

Top Three Things to Never Say to a Drug Addict in Treatment (sensitivity is of the UTMOST importance):

1.       “Substance Dependence is a Mental Health Disorder”. This translates precisely to, “I like the color of your straight jacket today”.

2.       “Just relax and focus on slow breaths”. This sounds a lot like, “I know you have a third grade education and you cannot possibly understand any additional instructions”.

3.       “WHAT???!!!!SICKO!!!! YOU ATE YOUR FATHER’S ASHES?????!!!” This is interpreted by the addict to mean that he is special and euphorically unique because he is the only one on God’s green earth who has ever thought to do such an indecent thing. (However, I must say this one is purely a fictitious exaggeration).

Ok. So, it’s a small departure from my usual empathic and diplomatic self. But, there’s no harm intended and really, what’s a little humor in the interest of maintaining my own shred of sanity?