Mal

 I like to play darts. I am bad at darts. I lose a lot more dart games than I win. However, that does not stop me from playing darts. When I lose at darts, which is most of the time that is all that happens. I lost at darts. No one really cares. The fellow I am playing cares just a bit, because I now owe him a pint, but no one else cares. There is no master of darts standing behind me gnashing his teeth over my 100th failure to hit the triple 20. No one is there to bemoan the fact that my darts are blue not red. We all know that red darts are better than blue darts. It is common knowledge. Common enough to make it hardly worth knowing at all. I just don't like the colour red. 

I like to play cards. I am not very good, or lucky at cards. I lose a lot more card games than I win. This doesn't lower my value as a human being. It lowers my bank account, but that is my fault for risking my money on a loser. Rarely does the person taking my money deign to offer sage advice on how I could have done better. Generally, they don't want me to do better. It is a simple relationship. They see that I am bad, and they keep their whore mouths shut about it because it enriches them. Simple enough, and I appreciated them for their silence. 

I like to read. I read a lot. I read a lot of obscure stuff that sometimes tilts over into the realm of boredom. Some of what I read is complicated stuff, and since I am stupid, most of it sails gently over my head. After all, if I split infinitives, I am surely too stupid to understand Peter Heather trying to explain the causes of the fall of the Roman Empire. It is a pity. Peter Heather is a very clever lad, and his book, if I was smart enough to understand the big words, would probably be very enjoyable. However, since I am burdened with an overlarge case of the stupids, most of it remains a mystery to me. Pity that, but at least I knew that when I bought the book. Luckily for Peter Heather, the sale makes him money, not me understanding it. If I understood it made him the money, then Peter Heather would be bankrupt.

I like to eat pizza. Pizza makes me, at least momentarily, happy. It does not bring me the type of joy that winning the Super Bowl would, but I am unlikely to ever play in or win the Super Bowl. Pizza is available to me at my local market daily. Sadly, pizza also makes me fat(ter). Most things that bring me joy make me fat. I guess that is also somehow my fault, but it is just the way of the world. I've the fat gene, and I am lazy. Therefore, looking at pizza makes me gain weight, eating it makes things worse, at least regarding the scale.  

I used to like to write. Focus in that simple grammatically correct sentence is on the words “used to.” I have lost my joy in writing. Not because I am bad at it, of course I am, I am bad at most things I do. After all, I still play cards, darts, and still eat pizza. Being bad at something never stopped me from at least giving it a go. Then again, no one stands over me reminding me how bad I am at those things constantly. I am not sure if you can be bad at eating pizza, but if you can I am sure I will manage it. However, Bobby Flay isn’t there to tell me that the cheese is not melted enough to bring out all its majestic flavour. It’s fucking cheese, it is generally not majestic.

Neither is my writing. However, luckily for me I have legions of people who are more than willing, and quite happy to tell me how poor it is. Legions of card-carrying grammar Nazis who clutch their pearls every time I fail to put a fucking comma in the right spot. Trust me, I have new, inventive places to put that comma that offends your tender soul, but you might not enjoy it as much as you’d think. Subject/verb agreement doesn’t make me as hot as a June bride riding bareback, and for that I make no apology. If the “U” I put in the word colour offends you, well fuck you, and the pink and purple jackass you rode in on. I am sure that 50 Shades of Grey is a master class of proper grammar and letter-perfect spelling. I encourage you to read it. There are other things I would encourage you to try, but you’d probably get upset that I misspelt the word defenestration, (which, for the record, I didn’t).

All this is to say that perhaps the slings and arrows have stuck. Perhaps Felix’s story will have to remain untold because I can’t properly use a semi colon and have no desire to learn. I suppose you could say that maybe someone with actual talent will come along and save poor Felix from the dustbin of literary history, but they won’t. Not because the talented fellow isn’t out there, he is no doubt of it.  But simply because Felix’s story is mine to tell, and since I am so very bad at the spelling as opposed to the telling, then Felix and his fate will remain unknown to everyone but me. Which might just be best for us all. I don’t have to think too hard about it, and the pearls can be freed from the clutching hands holding them. All in all, I suppose it’s a win/win, but it sure doesn’t feel like it at the moment.

I tried to make this post simple. I tried to use short, simple sentences that didn’t contain too many words. I failed, but then again what did you Nazis expect? You win, and I hope you enjoy 50 Shades. For the nonce at least. I will leave you with another simple, short, and grammatically correct sentence. Fuck you. (see how easy it is, hard to fuck up a two word sentence).