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Here I am at 7:30 in the a.m. staring at a deadline that incidentally expires in an hour. Right now I face the interesting connundrum of who to cuss out. My editor is the first guy that comes to mind. His month-in-advance deadline was too short for me to come up with a decent article. I tried to tell him that artists like myself need time to come up with quality gripe material, your time frame is too small. Salinger was not given a month to write Catcher in the Rye. But the man is an adamant oaf at best, and a nice guy whom you can't refuse at worst. He seems to think that because I have gripes and I vociferously voice them to all who are willing to listen, all the time, putting them to paper is as simple as reciting the ABCs backwards.
The reason I complain, rant and rave is because the world would be a really
sad place id everyone was happy. When you write, however, things are rather different. Here there are thousands of copies of you ranting and raving and, god forbid, something goes right in your life (you manage to get that elusive dame, for example) then what?
You have to suddenly refute all that you had written, issue a public retraction and apology for being a manic depressive and driving all those people who read the article into a suicidal frenzy. This brings to light a few more problems. Immediately, because things start going right, god decides that life is, indeed, a form of penance and that you have to pay. The short-lived feeling of yipee-kiy-aay fades away as fast as the girl who slipped through your grubby clutches for the guy who drives the white '97 Mustang.
Now, the major problem is the disciplinary inquiry that you face in front of the Undergraduate Judiciary Cabinet. The only reason any person is on that council is because they managed to convince a bunch of morally depraved people that they had a conscience that could be molded to fit the prevailing view of the council, but that is another topic. The first thing that I am charged with is accessory to suicide.
They say: "You pushed the guy over the edge. It was like you were the straw that broke the man's will to live. How do you plead?"
I say, "Well the guy was my roomy, and my article convinced him that he would be reincarnated as a higher life form. I swear he knew that he would be happy and that is all that we all want anyway. I showed him the light to happiness and a better life, I followed the ideals that shape America and I get indicted for trying to be patriotic. You guys are really messed up. That is the last time I help someone, You are the reason for society's ills, you are the reason that no one helps old ladies cross the road!"
The big Cahuna then says:" I see it now you are right!" He takes a hair pin and slits his wrist. His final words are: " I want to be happy too! That is what we all want. I think that this is the only way to get it." The life slowly drains out of him, and there is a visible groan around campus. That action was why I got arrested for the first time, and I did not even write anything.
From now on I will keep my mouth shut, lest I have a similar effect on the highly revered members of our judiciary system. Being a prophet is tough. I get called up for being vocally depressive, arrested for making people happy, and I am sure that I will be convicted because no one really understands me! What a way to go, but hey I'm happy I 'm in the slammer and have more time to think up a story for my editor and since my roomy so unfortunately passed away I have straight As