Like Pulling Teeth

Y'know, I think it's better when I only write occasionally.
It's probably the best way to enjoy me; occasionally. I haven't spent much time with myself besides within my head, but I strike myself as a 'small doses' kinda guy.
Good for what ails ya!

I had a root canal. Here's the irony with root canals: They're completely painless.
I think that the turn of phrase regarding root canals, such as: "I'd rather get a root canal than look my fuckin' boss in the eye ever again," is outdated.
Technology and the dental profession have made this sort of saucy quip obsolete.
My man Dyar swabbed me with Baby Orajel or something before giving me the needle, so I didn't feel that. Dyar is my dentist.
The needle, in turn, made the entire half of my mouth an afterthought.
I watched Blue Jays highlights on a TV embedded into the ceiling while he worked, and after two hours, it was over.
Then, I just had to make sure I didn't chew on my tongue while eating my burrito.
By the time the anasthetic wore off, I felt no discomfort of any kind.
I felt sleepy, but that was unrelated.  In fact, the only uncomfortable aspect was the thought that the TV was going to come loose of its moorings and land on my head.
So there you go.
Really, a root canal should be compared to feeling nothing, like, "When I have sex with my girlfriend these days, it's like I'm having a root canal."
Something to think about.
Of course, this is all just my tomfoolery. There is one part of the root canal that still stings, right to the bone.
"What's that, Paul?!"
When you get the bill.
Hiyo!

Try As I Write

Read, if you must, as you gnaw at the drumstick, right down to the bone!
They say that Thanksgiving is a time to be thankful. I say be thankful all of the time and just use Thanksgiving as a chance to ditch work.
Cause work deserves ditchin'.

I myself have plenty to be thankful for: a firm dog; textbook wife (also firm) and a tolerable family. I also own at least five t-shirts and we have so much fruit in our bowl that it's okay if the occasional kiwi goes bad.
If kiwis are ever good.

I'm taking a creative writing course from Lisa Moore. Perhaps you can tell by my curt, profound sentences and my devilish syntax.
There's not a lot of chemistry there, but she's wonderful at encouragement and deadlines (the two things a writer needs most).
I do up the stories and I submit them to the class and then they all go, "Oh yes, marvelous! Truly marvelous!" And I say, "Splendid" and then I ogle my classmates' breasts as best I can until class is over.
That's a joke.
Maybe this is why one of my pieces was referred to as 'sexist' a few weeks back by a classmate. Just because I talked about photographing Portuegese booty to send home to my buddies.
If someone photographed my ass on a beach, I wouldn't feel violated; I'd feel surprised. I would also feel sandy because beaches make me feel sandy.
Anyway, we're all getting along now and everyone tends to like everyone else. I try my best to aim for the gold star each week because I have a weird desire to be better than everyone else when it comes to creativity (which is missing the point of creativity).
I didn't ask permission, but here's one of the many 'postcard stories' that I have had to do. They call them a 'postcard story' because the body of the piece is supposed to be succinct enough to fit onto a postcard, if people still gave a shit about postcards. An easier distinction for a 'postcard story' would be '500 words'.
Anyway, let me rummage around the ol' documents folder to see what I can fi--a-ha! Here we go.
So, this was due the first week but I didn't know that because not everyone made it to the initial class e-mail list, so I learned about it in class and wrote it during our break. I didn't finish it  because I ran out of time.
The assignment was to write one portion of pure description, another of pure dialogue, and this was to be about a person who 'had a profound influence on your life in some way'.
I wrote about the guy who came to my door looking to take my recyclables while I was living in Bay Roberts last year:

He was on my porch then, suddenly. Taller than me by an apple or two, his hair was sparse on top of his head, like wheat that didn't have a good season.

His survival suit was as orange as the rest of them, unzipped to a point near the groin; a half-peeled banana. A plain shirt of some color or another was underneath. It was clingy with sweat and had whitened creases from earlier sweat.

His eyes darted to this and that. They were blue enough and soft enough and likely not terribly threatening to anyone. His teeth were yellowed, but not offensively so, and those jammed in his bottom jaw had gaps and spaces between them, as though they had no desire to get in line in the first place. His mouth was wide enough to fit at least one billiard ball and he was panting through it; longer, relaxed gasps of one who has been busy all day at who knows what. I could hear his breath as he exhaled, heavy but content, like a dog's. His tongue heaved within his gob, like the bosom of a dancing woman at a party. His hands were large enough for throttling. Thin, surfaced cracks eddied from cuticle to first knucle on each of his fingers. He wore large, untidy boots that would look appropriate on the feet of someone in military reserve.

His face might have been handsome if it were just a fraction more trustworthy. His jaw was squared and set and it framed his sun-worn face well. It jutted somewhat, as if to accept any challenging fists. As his eyes centered on me, I met his distracted gaze. He looked in need of aid, but you couldn't say for certain what sort.

"Is it alright if I go on with your bottles that you got there?"

It was.

"I goes around to all the different houses and I takes the bottles and brings 'em down to the depot and that. Get a bit for 'em. I talked to the town though and they said that I got to check with all the residents first though, and see if it's alright."

"Okay, yeah sure, that's no problem. The bags are just all out front there in front of the garbage box, and you can grab them whenever. That's fine with me."

"I just got to check with everyone, see? Never stole nothing in me life. No, I've never stole nothing."

There you go. 

Oh, by the way, I submitted my first larger piece like a blog post and did it in my usual line-by-line, no indentation blog format. 

They all hated it.