I know, I know.
In all honesty, I did not realize how long it’s been until a friend pointed out that gussprints has been a dark, cob-webbed recess since June. One which people pass by on their way to read such journalistic gems as “She woke up; what her boyfriend did to her will shock you!” and “17 reasons why toenails are good for you; you won’t believe no. 8!”
I apologize for the absence. I am somewhat concerned, of course, that I have not been missed. My own insignificance has been waved before me in bold print. That other blogger finally seduced the three fans I still have, and I am solely responsible for that.
Where have I been? Well, being the creative force I like to think I am, I will provide a few explanations, and leave you to decide which one seems to be more likely:
I realized, around the tail end of June, that I have been doing ‘the wheelbarrow’ wrong this whole time, and I spent the time strengthening my upper body, in accordance with the manual.
I am getting married. To an Indian woman, as per my most persistent childhood fantasy, and I spent the last two months haggling over what should be my dowry- because these people don’t seem to understand how being the last grandson of an actual chief translates into being ‘hot property that needs to be snapped up’- and practicing the dance routine with which we will announce to the world that ‘we do’.
I have rethought writing as a career path. Subsequently, I have shortlisted teaching, professional football punditry and male stripping as highly viable options. The last two months therefore went to shortening a long list that had previously included modeling, eye-witnessing and- of course- preaching.
Yearning the experience of taking care of something, I obstinately refused to shave my hair, purchased an enormous vat of hair food and conditioner, and proceeded to wow the populous of Kesses with my natural curls. I have therefore been busy blowing people away.
I lost, completely, my desire to write. To cure this, I embarked on a hunt for a new muse, one who would breathe fire into my sails once again, and bring that half smile to my face whenever I stared at my computer, my fingers buzzing excitedly over the keyboard.
In any case, I feel it is my responsibility to showcase writing of the highest quality. And because I am admittedly far from my best at the moment, I have elected to share a snippet from an author I respect immensely. That you may remember what good writing is like, and I may purge from my soul the demons of laziness.
The Terror Of Lids:
Yes, the rewards are high, but it’s a game where the price of defeat is savage. Sometimes Margret, after grunting with it herself for a collection of ‘hnggh’s, will hand me a bottle or a jar that has a screw top along with an impatient, ‘Open that for me.’ If the gods lie content in the skies above England at that moment, then what follows is a rapid flick of my wrist, a delightful ‘click-fshhhh’ gasp of surrender, and my handing the thing back to her FEELING LIKE A HERO OF NORSE LEGEND.
Generally, though, what happens is that I strain for a while and strip the skin off the palm of my hands. Then I wrap the lid in a tea towel and strain some more to equal effect. At this point I’m on to using the jamb of the door as a vice to hold the lid while I twist at the container; Margret will be saying, ‘Give it back here, you’ll wreck the door,’ and I’ll be swearing and twisting and saying, ‘I’ll repaint that bit in a minute.’
The fear is upon me. If it’s a fizzy thing, you can sometimes puncture the lid to relieve the pressure and then get it open, but you’re not often that lucky. ‘Give it back,’ Margret repeats, reaching around me, trying to take the item from my hands. I swivel away — ‘Just a minute’ — and desperately twist at the lid again, now not even attempting not to squint up my face as I do so.
At last, though, Margret will manage to get the thing back. This is the darkest moment. If she tries again and it remains fastened, then I am saved. ‘It’s just completely stuck,’ I’ll say, ‘It is. Stop trying now. Stop. Stop it.’ However, there are times — and my stomach chills now, even as I write this — when she gets it back and, with one last satanic effort, manages to spin the lid free. A slight smile takes up home on her face.
‘What?’ I say.
‘No — what?’
‘I’d loosened it.’
‘I didn’t say anything.’
And I’ll have to drag the tiny, damp shreds of my manhood away into the reclusive garage until the slight, slight smile disappears from her some thirty-six hours into the future.
-From ‘Things my Girlfriend and I Have Argued About’
By Mil Millington