Last night, Ed asked me how the writing was going.
I had a ready answer. “It sucks donkey balls.”
(In case there’s any ambiguity there, it wasn’t a good writing day.)
“I’m reconsidering my career options, perhaps barista, or monster truck mechanic.” The first wasn’t really out of left field – we’ve talked about opening up a coffee shop, a dream space, the kind of community place we’d want to go.
The latter? Well, he was intrigued.
Turns out I’m not the only one. My sister has also considered the monster truck mechanic career path. I didn’t ask, but I wonder if that option seemed attractive after a day of unrelenting failure at a chosen task.
(Or, you know, maybe she just likes loud trucks. TRUCK-A-SAURUS!)
Either way, her compassionate reply made me laugh. “Donkey balls are quite furry, surprisingly large, and often filthy! I hear you, sister.”
Precisely. Just so.
It’s like being six years old, and having the detailed image of a magnificent flying dinosaur in your head and then drawing what looks exactly like the bugsplat from your dad’s windshield on your paper.
It sucks donkey balls.
I’m hoping for a better day tomorrow.