Thursday, May 23, 2013


I took a Fiction class for the first time this past semester. I neglected the fact that my fictitious writing experience consists of a story I wrote in first grade about a fairy named Candy. She was a mythical creature, not a transsexual - just to clarify. There was also an essay I had to write in fourth grade with a prompt that asked what I would do if I were a raindrop. Well, I'd probably take a vacation to Europe and backpack across Ireland with a few close friends and OH WAIT. I'M A FUCKING RAINDROP. I'D FALL. JUST LIKE RAINDROPS DO. My last fictional endeavor was a Christian-based college's essay contest I entered my senior year of high school. It came with a five hundred dollar prize for the first place winner. I was to give my stance on whether a newly created fossil fuel should stay in the entrepreneur's control or be sold to the government. I'm filing this under "fiction" because I believe "fiction" to be synonymous with "bullshit." Needless to say, my bullshitting skills won me first place. I'd like to give a shout out to Belmont University for introducing me to Jim Beam. That five hundred dollars really strengthened our relationship.

What I wasn't expecting when I enrolled in my own university's Fiction course was that our final exam consisted of me reading my fiction aloud to my peers. I tried to fight this and failed miserably.

"Do I have to read this?"

"Yes, it's part of your grade."

"But I really don't want to say this out loud."

"You wrote it!"

"I know! Wrote it. That's why I write. So I don't have to SAY it."

"You need to read it."

"I don't even know why I wrote this. I have no idea where this even came from."


"Fine. I'll read it. Ahem..."

Maude Newman kept a Dicks Diary. This would be evident to anyone who happened to see the red book, for Maude had taken a black Sharpie and written, "DICKS DIARY" on the cover of it, followed by a cartoon penis. The drawing lacked any details except for two arrows on either side of it pointing up to imply that it was, in fact, an erect penis. Maude had no time for, "Limp Lukes" as she called them. She had established a strict set of rules and regulations to avoid these types.

1. If he isn't hard after four minutes and one second of making out, retreat.
2. In order to avoid hurting his feelings, give him a friendly pat on the back.
3. Before exiting, tilt head to the side, smile sympathetically, and say, "Maybe next time."
4. Do not plan a next time.

She believed this was more than generous. 

"Do I really have to read this? It's making me uncomfortable."


"Fine. Ugh. But I'm skipping to a different part now."

Maude quickly became bored with kissing, leading to events that she did not announce to her father this time, or yell out the window. Luckily, he could always resort to her fifth diary. Diaries three and four, The Lips List and The Nookie Notebook,  had been just as tame as the first two, especially since Maude thought “nookie” meant “kiss.” Mr. Newman wasn’t as disturbed when leafing through these, but that all changed with The Hook-Up Handbook. This next installment was surprisingly full of haikus.

August 31, 2007
I am not in band
But I play an instrument
It’s called the penis

September 6, 2007
Flopping like a fish
Out of water. Until it’s
In my open mouth

September 20, 2007
The hokey-pokey
Is a pleasant type of dance
 In my vagina

This is when I erupted into the whole nervous-laughter thing that I have absolutely NO control over and once I had calmed down, I finished my story. I don't even know how many times I had to say "cock" or "dick" or pausing to say "I'm sorry I keep saying cock and dick" but it was enough to get my entire class envisioning a heaping pile of penises. And now you're picturing it and you weren't even there. Great. Now I'll be known as that chick with OPD. Obsessive Penis Disorder. FUCK IT. The disorder, I mean, not the penises. I mean, fuck them if you want, I guess. Actually, you can't really do that because they're not real. I made them up. I mean, I didn't "invent" the penis. There are real penises you could potentially fuck, but --- YOU KNOW WHAT, NEVERMIND. 


...that's the condition talking.


...that's the penis talking.

...I apologize.

In my Fiction class, we were also told never to use cliches. So I wrote the following:

They say all is fair in love and war, but it’s not fair. Why does he get to call the shots? I’m the one bored to tears with a bun in the oven, and he decides to come out of the closet now? Is that the way to bury the hatchet? How am I supposed to bounce back when now I have a bone to pick? And he expects me to just grin and bear it? He gave me butterflies in my stomach, swept me off my feet, got me buck naked, and now he tells me he’s flaming. Why couldn’t he tell me this before we rolled in the hay? Now I’m a day late and a dollar short and if I stick with him…well, I’m damned if I do and damned if I don’t. I’m digging myself into a hole that I can’t do a 180 in. I should have known when he asked to put it where the sun don’t shine. Thinking back, it was as plain as the nose on my face, but at the time I thought that even a blind squirrel can find an acorn once in a while. I know everything wasn’t coming up roses but at least something was coming. Now I guess I have to get with the program and get out of Dodge to get my ducks in a row. But, you know what they say.

THIS IS WHY I WRITE NONFICTION. Tell me to write fiction, and I end up writing about dicks and homosexuals and Helen Keller's Virtual Rollercoaster. I don't know where any of this comes from. All I know is this: if I were a raindrop, I'd land on a gay man's penis.

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