Turtlenecks and Pearls


So, I was thinking about the most random thing earlier today. The idea of Hell and what I would consider to be completely miserable consumed a few minutes of my afternoon. You know, classic work thoughts. Turtlenecks quickly came to mind.

When I was younger, I was forced to wear them and I despised them. Still do—but I just don’t wear them! The last time I did try to wear one, I had to go home and change because I couldn’t stop tugging at the collar of that ridiculous, maroon mf’er. Into the trash it went. 

Generally, I am not what one would consider to be claustrophobic; I mostly prefer safe, enclosed environments. The idea of endless space and/or falling into the sky has always been frightening to me. Keep me grounded, please!

Anyway, I came to the conclusion that, if the damned are forced to wear uniforms in Hell, a turtleneck must be a component of the agonizing outfit. My train of thought took me back to a story one of my besties told me years ago…

One day, she decided to wear a string of pearls she had inherited from some family member. She was going out that night and the look just seemed right. The feeling did not last long—she found herself at a social gathering feeling choked by her glistening heirloom. What ensued was a certain sort of struggle.

She tried and tried to properly remove the necklace, but could not seem to subdue the bastard. After giving it her best shot, she finally seized hold of the sinister strangler and ripped it right off. Pearls broke loose and fell to the ground.

From the way she described the experience, I am confident she does not regret breaking the necklace and does not miss it at all. I can empathize—because of the turtlenecks. One person’s accessories and garments can truly be another person’s worst nightmare.

As I am typing, I can almost feel the devil’s hands around my neck.


Z

 

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A Lesson in Red Satin

Recently, a friend of mine sent a text that read, “Can I call you?” I was available and let her know. She called and stated that she was in a bind and that her school (she works at a college) had an art exhibit that day and she was concerned some of the people who were supposed to have art displayed would not come through. I agreed to send a few photos over electronically for her and her coworker to print out and get out there. 

I receive a frantic call a few hours later. “Zac, I just got home from work. The lady in charge of the fundraiser just called me and said that you won an award and you need to be there to accept the money some woman put into the prizes.” I did not realize my piece could win any competition and definitely was not expecting to receive any money. I had a half hour to get dressed and show up to receive the award. It was actually fun. 

Later that night, I got to thinking about how strange and fun that experience was and how much I love a sporadic adventure. I considered this an adventure and was extremely grateful. I remembered something from earlier in the week. 

My buddy from college, Heath, is a rapper and just released a new album. He put a post on Facebook and was interested in finding out how many of his fans would be interested in receiving an autographed actual CD in the mail (apparently these have been fading out for a while). I had neither listened to his album nor had seen him for years. But, he was always so sweet to me and was one of those guys who is an awesome person—genuinely! The mouse pretty much clicked itself.

The cool correlation between these two events left a smile on my face. I have begun to realize, over the years, how important it is to support our friends who are doing their thing and following their dreams. All too often, people expect art to be for free (even friends) and it can leave anyone who has created something and put themselves out there feeling vulnerable and insecure. I want to fight that. I am a supporter of my friends who create and I know from experience that the support can and will come back. 

Just wanted to share my thoughts. Oh, also, I got second place. Coming in second never felt so good.


Z

Confessions of a Typo


Confessions of a Typo

Never possible to be perfect
To be perfectly honest

In fact, one might look to me
To see the epitome of
A bruised dream—
A word almost beautiful
If it had been written slowly, meticulously

Often, words on the run
Will run into trouble,
Whilst staying busy, so
Please forgive the glitch I can be:
Such a type o, oblivious me

Z