FOMOing at the Mouth

“Just write something…  Anything”, they have told me, again and again. Here’s the problem:  I am so used to writing when the muse descends, that I’m not actually sure how writing regularly would work.  The muse herself is more fickle than a high school girlfriend, feeding me peeled, vanilla-dipped grapes with one hand while slapping my face with the other.  And often, what I thought was champagne when it first came out turns out to be, upon later review, Grade A, Premium Toilet Water. I guess I am, by far, not the first person to suffer through this.  I don’t imagine I’m anything special.  Look, I’d like to think that I’m a little special.  More so than the guy buying bullets off of a TV shopping channel at two in the morning, naked except for his socks and wondering if the chick who answered his phone call is single.  (Well, that guy might be special, too, but more in a kind of “Needs newspaper under the chair at mealtimes” kind of way) ...

So, I’ll confess:  I don’t have a great deal of experience with Valentine’s day.  I was the fat kid who got better marks than everyone else, so you can picture how popular that made me in high school. (Hey, don’t knock it, though:  It forced me to grow a personality so robust that, despite the fact that I’m 20 kilos overweight and collect Star Wars Lego, I still married a woman who looks like this: Now, before the sarcastic comments start: -  Yes, this really is my wife, I didn’t poach a photo off the internet. -  Yes, she has working eyes. -  No, I didn’t have to take her grandmother hostage to get a date with her. -  Yes, we’ve had consensual sex, I have a 22-month-old son to prove it)