“You look horrible.” It was true. Filthy and disheveled, with tortilla chiplets in my whiskers from my lone meal all day, I was gruesome at best. “Why do you do this again?” “Why do I write? I want to contribute something of real importance to the world.” “Try eating, sleeping, lifting weights, and getting some sun. You’ll get laid and make generations of contributions to the gene pool.” “Writers get plenty,” I offered defensively. “Sure, with myopic waifs. How many grandchildren do you think the spawn from those relationships will pass along?” “That’s just wrong.” She was absolutely right, of course.
By Dennis Koehne