“I think that’s just an urban legend, Clint.”
“No, this guy told me it really happens.”
“It would be sexual harassment.”
“No, not if he just places it there.”
My friend Clint, who recently joined the Navy and will be working on a submarine, is telling me about a “technique” that is supposedly employed to help the newly enlisted seamen focus.
Go ahead, Clint. Tell the story in your own words:
Okay, I was told if you’re new on the submarine and asked to steer the submarine, the captain tests your focus by draping his dick on your shoulder. You can’t look at it. You can’t even act like it’s there. You just need to keep your focus.
“In your pants, if I’m lucky.”
“Six feet under.” (Done with a forlorn sigh.)
“I want to be a fireman!” (Said in loud child-like voice.)
“I'd like to break into the hamburger business.”
The list goes on. But perhaps these are all easy ways for me to escape much needed goal-setting. I’d like more money. I’d like recognition for my work. I’d like to own a cute house in the country with a fireplace, dogs running around and a sexy man who loves me adoringly (not in that order – the fireplace shouldn’t occupy the number one slot...or should it?).
Write a book, I’m often told. Yeah, you write a book. Write a book for me while you're at it. People don’t understand that after years of working in the creative arts, writing a book has as much appeal to me as eating molten glass.
I know the behind-the-scenes work involved in it, the years put into writing, publishing, distributing and promoting it, only for it to potentially fail miserably. And why? So I can say I wrote a book? So when I die, people can mill about my wake, eating coconut-encrusted popcorn shrimp and drinking a pint of Guinness saying, “At least she wrote a book.”
When was it just enough to live?
Some days, I find it’s an accomplishment to just make my bed in the morning. I stripped the paint off of a dresser once and still consider that one of my crowning achievements. I’m excited when my car starts in the morning. Seriously. I think, “Fucking A! My life is awesome. The car started again!”
The porch light in front of my house burnt out months ago. Every time I walk by it, I think, “One of these days, I’m gonna change you, you little bitch.” I then trip up the front steps and curse that light, but never my lack of drive.
It took me two years to change my cellphone plan. The prospect of it was so overwhelming and tedious, I had to build up to it, real slow-like.
See that photo of my shoulder at the top? That was done while I was talking with a client on the phone about an important project. Some may call it multi-tasking but I don't think the client would appreciate it much.