End of Year Funk:
Bonus New Year Awesomeness: Be Prepared to Strut!
Dear bozos knuckleheads morons foul and evil creatures with minds as twisted as their bodies:
I used to look forward to my 45 minute commute to and from my miserable job. By day, I provide software support to computer illiterates who are somehow smart enough to practice medicine. But during my commute I can think and pontificate. There, I….AM….A….WRITER!
Yes! I create worlds and beings your primitive minds could not fathom. I have made devils weep in sorrow and angels long to lose their wings and become mortals just for the chance to live a life as I have written it.
Sadly, that has all come to an end. Your puzzler about odometer palindromes has ruined me. For now I spend my commutes casting furtive glances at my odometer, calculating the miles to the next palindrome and on which part of my commute that happy moment will arrive.
My mind, unused to this new feat at first, would wander off task, creating stories that children would whisper about in the night. Stories that would make my elementary school reading teachers weep in shame as they realize that they had absolutely nothing to do with my genius.
And then I would come back to the world, glance at the odometer and discover that I had missed that beauty, that obsession, that rancid beast that is a numerical palindrome.
Once, I missed it by one mile! One measly, stinkin’ mile. I cursed you, then. Quietly, but with vigor.
I became, in a word, obsessed.
I am now ruined. My commutes are no longer reserved for delicious flights of fancy, juicy tales of sordid abandon or delectable odes of horror. My obsession for the odometer palindrome has taken over my mind, which now works feverishly to prevent me both from missing the next miracle and rear-ending my fellow traveler ahead.
A pox upon thee, foul beings. My hopes, my dreams are dashed. I will never accidentally run into another author at a local coffee shop and have him fall to his knees, begging for the chance to worship me, to watch me work. I would have gently lifted him to his feet, chiding him for his over-vaunted emotional display and, then, eventually, begrudgingly, allow him to take a peek at the first line of my new work, a work destined to bring shame to all the publishers who have, in the past, rejected my tomes.
You have ruined me and the minds of my now-deprived-of-joy, would-have-been readers.
Really, who cares who I am now?
P.S. I am also posting this letter to you on my blog, thegeekiestgirl.wordpress.com. I want everyone to know the dangers you present to the creative world.
P.S.S. My dog hates your show, too.