Chained to the Chair

You sit, and sit and sit and sit. You sit until you can crank out anything, if only a sentence, a paragraph — you sit until you wring those words from your brain. You’ve got to.

It doesn’t have to be anything significant. Heck, I don’t think I’ve ever written anything significant. It can be silly, such as “I love my ears,” “I hate pickles,” or “Let’s go throw tomatoes at the smokers on the corner.” It can be serious, like “I am being serious.” It can be romantic, maybe “You are the one that I love.” It can be poetic, “Where are thou / Thou art here / Sitting in this chair / Woe is me.” Or it can be random, perhaps “Let’s go for a ride in my spacecraft,” “I feel like breakdancing,” “Aurora Borealis is so fricking beautiful,” or “I may or may not have just wet myself.” 

There are moments during the day that I run across things that strike me as worthy of writing about, however I generally dismiss them. To me, writing just a paragraph, or a sentence about these observances is an insult to their existence. I am going to have a change of heart tonight and pay tribute to them:

TO THE TREE I REST MY BIKE AGAINST:

Thanks for letting me lean Ed on you each night, but more importantly for keeping him safe, cool, and dry. My heart sank tonight when we returned from our stroll to find different bikes chained to your trunk. No worries — Ed and I will be back tomorrow, and we know you’ll be waiting, faithful friend.

TO MY EARS:

For being the best listeners I know, you two are extremely underrated. Thanks so much for putting up with my 10 pound earrings, and sorry you are always suffocated by my hair. My apologies that you evolved from my dad’s side of the family (which would explain why you are oft times covered.)

TO REDUCED FAT ICE CREAM:

Who do you think you are? A delectable, delightful, tantalizing treat? A dessert worthy of a Friday evening? A dish of succulence bound for my hips? A chocolate-coated, caramel covered mound of sweet and sinful?

Nay. You are a cheapskate, an immense disgrace to those frozen creams before you. You are a phony, a bowl of contempt! You could be the New York, the French, the BASKIN ROBBINS HAAGEN DAZS MOTHER OF BEN & JERRY! You could be — but your three grams of fat think otherwise.

Back to the freezer with you, you…poser.

TO A PROFESSOR’S MAINE ACCENT:

I love how you say “cell phone.” (Cell phewn.)

TO THE TARGET DOLLAR AISLE:

You get more terrible every week. I can’t afford you anymore.

TO THE SMOKERS ON THE CORNER:

So you can’t promenade through campus anymore. You’ve succumbed to the street corner, a sight for sore eyes. Your ashtrays have been disconnected, your privileges adjourned, your pride all but bruised. What does being a smoker entail? Standing on the corner. How does this make you feel?

I’ll tell you how you make me feel. You make me feel awkward. You make me want to peel the butt from your fingers and crush the ever-loving tobacco out of it. You make me want to walk faster. You make me want to take the long way. You make me wish you were instead randomly dispersed throughout campus once again, so I wouldn’t have to look at you, an unsightly congregation of hooligans, respectfully.  

You make me angry. Good work.

TO MY BED:

You are looking awfully beautiful right now. I think I might join you.

TO ALL:

Sit, and sit and sit and sit. Sit until you can crank out anything, if only a sentence, a paragraph — sit until you wring those words from your brain. Goodnight, friends.