Today Plinky asks me why I started writing, and is that still why I write.
I don't really recall *when* I started writing, but my goal, I would say, was, and still is, to make people laugh (or at least smile). I'd like to think I have a pretty good success rate.
Except, you know, for this bit of writing that you're reading now.
Today Plinky's prompt to write something says: Tell someone you're proud of just how proud you are.
So, I'll do that now. And I'll tell my son Cameron how I am proud of him, hopefully without getting all mushy and embarrassing and "Geez, Dad, I didn't really need people to read that" and stuff.
I could go on about how you're a smart, level-headed, responsible young person, funny and inventive, and strong-willed and opinionated, and junk like that, but instead, I want to focus on how you seem to be your own person - you don't seem to be very concerned with trends and expectations and perceptions. You're comfortable being, and discovering, yourself, and I'm pretty proud of you for that.
Sunday morning I had a revelation. I figured out how Purgatory should work. This is, I suppose, only valid for Catholics, since they're the Purgatory believers - but it should be implemented right across the board, imo.
It involves paperwork.
So, okay, you die. Your soul goes to Purgatory - a solitary room, white with no adornations of any kind. White table, white straight-back chair. Comfortable enough, but very antiseptic and uninspiring. You are all by yourself.
On the table is a stack of white papers and a pencil and an eraser. And a pencil sharpener. You are instructed to list everything and everyone and anything and anyone that you would like to see and experience for the rest of eternity while in Heaven. People from your past that you'd like to see; Memories you'd like to keep; Things you'd like to do and/or try that you never got to when you were alive; etc.
It is suggested that you be as specific as possible with each item. And it is suggested that you be absolutely thorough, because once your list is compiled, it cannot be altered.
Basically, once your list is completed to your satisfaction, you sign off on it, hand it over, and then you are transported to Heaven, where the things on your list are available to you, whenever you want them, as often as you want them.
Some people will spend a long, long time (maybe forever) working on their lists, obsessing and making sure they don't miss out on anything. Others may think they will be content with just a few basics, more eager to move on to their reward.
This is, I think, an interesting approach, and puts the onus on each individual.
Does anyone see any flaws or improvements that should be addressed before I present this to the Powers That Be?
"Anyone want to go to The Exhibition?" Terry asked the room.
Beanie wrinkled her nose at the memory of her last time there.
"Can we maybe NOT go to The Exhibition this year?" she replied. "Don't feel like getting my clothes dry-cleaned from all the vomit again, thanks."
Everyone but Gaston glanced away from Beanie, not able to look her in the eye. For maybe ten seconds there was silence, as they each remembered their own complicity in "The Great Exhibition Vomitician", as the event had since been dubbed.
Gaston, who wasn't part of the group last year, looked around at the suddenly sullen faces and broke the silence. "How did you get vomit on your clothes at The Exhibition, Beanie?"
"I don't want to talk about it. Just suffice to say we're not ever going on The Zipper ever again!"
"Kevin hasn't been the same since," said Terry.
"Look," yelled Kevin, "just because a guy vomits and pisses himself AND shits his pants all at the same time, it doesn't make him a bad guy!"
More silence.
"Now I really need to know what happened," said Gaston.
"Okay," sighed Terry.
"Please, no, Terry," pleaded Beanie. "Quiet. Really."
She looked quite serious.
Terry, however, had made his decision. Undeterred, he relayed the story of how everyone who was in their compartment of The Zipper, all threw up in unison, on Beanie mostly, as a result of the smell after Kevin had pissed and shit his pants in fear.
"Vomit!" laughed Gaston. "Who'd'a thunk you guys had such weak stomachs!"
Xerxes, the foreign-exchange student, who, up until this point, had remained quiet and unassuming, in the corner, finally spoke up.
"You should smell MY home town! Zipper-puke all the time!"
