In Which I Joke

Inspired by the book “Go The Fuck To Sleep,” I decided to make a few changes to some classic children's literature. Check out these titles:

“Love You Sometimes (And Now is Not One of Those Times)”

An endearing, true-life story of a frazzled parent who is at the end of their rope with their toddler, and expresses it in moment of stark honesty. Teaches children the value of being truthful and tactful at the same time. (Original here)

“Where The Wild Things Used to Be”

Max returns to where the Wild Things are to find that they've all been killed by poachers. This heart-breaking tale can be used by parents to help their children understand the concept of death and dying. (Original here)

“The Little Engine that Couldn't Remember if He Could or Not”

The Little Engine is much older now, and Alzheimer's is creeping in. Before he used to think he could, but now he's not so sure. Will his friends help him figure things out, or will he wander off on his own (again)? This story can teach children why Grammie or Grampa doesn't remember them anymore. (Original here)

After I made the images above, I realized that I was beginning to feel tempted to actually write the stories to go along with them. Is there a market for parodies of books for children?

If I saw these in a bookstore, I'd totally buy them.

In Which I Take a Second Look

I used to work in an office that had an ice machine. It had a proximity sensor so it only dispenses ice when you put your cup underneath the chute. Despite the fancy technology, it worked only sporadically. You'd put your cup under the chute and wait for the ice, but nothing would come out. Move your cup closer and then farther away, still nothing. Just as you got fed up with the machine and take your cup away, it would dump ice all over your hand and spill onto the floor. This happened a lot, so you either had to prepare to get a little wet (that's what she said), or simply go without ice.

As result of this finicky machine's behavior, there were often are bits of ice on the floor that melted and caused things to get a little slippery. Instead of putting down a mat to absorb the water, the cleaning crew in the building decided it would be better to place a "Caution Wet Floor" sign in front of the machine instead. They don't bother mopping up the water, but figure that if you see the bright orange sign and still slip and fall on your ass, well, they tried to warn you and it's your own damn fault.

One day, I was on my way to the bathroom by way of the kitchen and I noticed that the Wet Floor sign had somehow migrated away from the ice machine and into the middle of the floor. I kicked it lightly with my foot on my way past, and something caught my eye.

I stopped and asked myself if I truly saw what I thought I saw:

I turned around to take a second look, and was proven wrong:

Truth be told, I was a little bummed out that someone hadn't swapped out the sign with the one I thought I saw. Would have made the rest of that Tuesday afternoon at the office a bit more enjoyable.

In Which I Write

I write.

I write because I have to.

Not out of obligation, but out of a critical need.

I write because it is an outlet for the things in my head that I have trouble expressing with my voice. Writing becomes my voice, my way of exploring how I feel, my way of explaining how I feel. Writing allows me to rehearse and revise my thoughts so that I can help others understand me, and through that, writing helps me better understand myself.

Writing is addiction that I feed because it nurtures my soul.

If I go too long without writing, I become a different version of myself. When deprived of time to write, my soul becomes dried out, drought-stricken. Writing hydrates me, and when that rainstorm of words finally arrives as I sit at my desk, fingers flying over the keyboard, words and feelings spilling out, I soak it all up like a dry riverbed. I stand there in the rain, the absence of which I caused, the creation of which I caused, and I am restored.

I mostly write fiction, because I like to create something to hide behind, which feels safer than exposing myself. I create stories about places I'll never go to, stories about people I'll never meet, because neither the places or the people exist. Like me, they exist in silence. They exist in their own world, hidden, but they have stories to tell. I write about them to tell their story, often letting the characters themselves tell me what happens next, not realizing that in the end, I am telling my own story. None of it is real, yet so much of it is. There are many truths about myself hidden between the lines.

My wife inspires me to write.

She can see the affect that writing, or not writing, has on me, and knows that I need it more than even I recognize sometimes. She inspires and pushes me to write, to connect with myself through these words, to connect with parts of me that I have denied the existence of. Through my words, she can connect with me on levels that I struggle to communicate verbally. The words I write are keys to doors that I didn't know were locked, keys to doors that, until I wrote about them, I didn't know existed, and they let her in.

They let her in and I am not alone anymore.

And so I write.

I write for me, as it is the best form of self-care. I write for me because it lets me breathe. It heals me. It lets me feel pain, it lets me feel anger, and it lets me forgive. It lets me feel love and purpose. It lets me tear down walls I no longer need, because I am no longer alone.

I write for my wife, because when she looks at me, she tells me she sees sunlight reflecting off something hiding in the rubble. She knows there is treasure within me, but only I can dig for it. I've found some of it already, but she tells me there's more. I'm inclined to believe her.

Writing allows me to exist, no longer in silence.

No longer just in my world, but in your world, too.

In Which I Get Protection

(Author's Note: Here's another post from way back, this one coming to you from December 2009.)

---

It had been a harrowing week, thanks to the court proceedings that drew me to testify against a feared member and leader of the local mob branch. True to the story of my life, I had been in the wrong place at the wrong time, and found myself scared for my life. And yet I agreed with the D.A.'s request to testify, and wound up with a 24-hour security detail to protect me from any mob low-life who might try to silence me.

I sat in the darkened living room in a safe house in an uncomfortable easy chair, looking at one of my heavily-armed security guards asleep on the couch. There was another guard by the front door, and a third by the back door leading out towards the patio. By all rights their presence should have made me feel more at ease, but I felt just the opposite. I jumped at every small noise I heard.

When the knock sounded on the front door, I just about popped out of my skin.

The guard asleep on the couch sprung up, and had his sidearm leveled at the door and his finger on the trigger before he was completely upright. The guard at the door had done the same, sliding silently off of his chair and into a crouch. The third guard at the back door hid around the corner, only the tip of his rifle visible.

There was a second round of knocks. The hollow sounds seemed almost annoyed at being forced to wait. The guard at the door motioned for me to get up. My chair creaked as I stood up, and I walked quietly to the door.

"Who is it?" I called out.

"US Marshalls, Sir," a stern voice replied. "We need to talk to you. Urgently."

"Let's see some identification," the first guard said. "Hold it up near your chest."

The first guard leaned towards the door and looked through the peep hole. Seemingly satisfied, he dropped his sidearm. "All clear," he said to the other guards in the room. "It's legit."

He opened the door, and two large men stepped inside. He held up his badge for me to see, and indeed it was legit. His partner did the same, shifting the weight of the gym bag he carried to his right hand. I acknowledged them both with a nod.

"The name is Watts," he said, and stuck out his hand. I grasped it and shook it firmly.

"What's this about?" I asked.

"Sir, our surveillance team keeping tabs on the man you testified against this week discovered plans to launch a large tactical assault against this house later tonight. We're not sure if this is threat is real, but we can't risk waiting it out to see. It's been decided that it's no longer safe for you to stay here. We're placing you in protection."

"What do you mean? Witness protection?" I stammered, my skin turning cold.

"No, not witness protection. We were given orders to place you in our Wetness Protection program."

I blinked. Did I hear him correctly?

"We've got your supplies right here," he said. Turning to his partner, he reached for the gym bag. "Simmons?"

Simmons reached down and picked up the bag, and handed it to Watts. He grabbed the zipper and pulled it open. Pulling the large flap back, I looked inside. There were at least a dozen adult-sized diapers stacked neatly side by side.

"This... this doesn't make sense. Surely you misunderstood your orders."

He laughed arrogantly. "Sir, I assure you that I heard my orders correctly, and frankly, you've got no real choice in the matter."

"But... wetness protection? That doesn't even make sense! How is that supposed to help me from getting shot up from the mob?"

"That's up to you, I suppose. Orders are orders. Now, come on. We've only got a few minutes. Hop to it."

He shoved the gym bag at me. I caught it at my chest and stumbled back a step.

"You've got to be kidding. I'm not changing into a diaper. This is ridiculous!"

Watts sighed, and turned to Simmons. They seemed to communicate through a series of shrugs and nods. Watts turned back to face me, and then grabbed me by the shoulders.

"Grab his pants!" he cried. I struggled against his strong grip, but couldn't free myself.

Simmons leaped forward and began unbuckling my belt. I kicked and thrashed my legs.

The guard who had been sleeping looked down at me, but offered no help.

"Having problems with incontinence?" he asked, as if genuinely interested.

"Get affordable wetness protection now, with new adult diapers!" Simmons said cheerily with a booming voice. "Discreet, not bulky under your clothing, super absorbent and non-constricting!"

Watts spoke up. "Available now, in a variety of sizes, at your local supermarket or pharmacy!"

---

I woke up, gasping, and sat up. I had fallen asleep the couch, and the TV was on still. I blinked my eyes to clear the sleep from them, and sure enough, the tail end of a commercial for incontinence products was on.

Damn overactive imagination.