My "Art" of Writing

One glorious Sunday morning ten years ago, around this time of the year, right after Thanksgving, maybe two or three days later, maybe longer. I don't recall the exact day. What I will not forget is that I woke up that glorious, sun-drenched Sunday, with an aching, enormous, delightful hard-on, the likes of which I thought would never ever happen to me. I lingered in bed, enjoying rushing, reassuring feelings of virility. Then all of sudden, I jumped out of bed---the erection was still in full swing, arching splendidly to the direction of heaven---and ran toward my study and wrote down in my notebook: "Today marked the beginning of a new life of Wissai. Henceforth, he would call himself a writer, an artist with words."

Since that day, I have written almost everyday, unconsciously, drunkenly, like a man possessed. I have written about her, about me---mostly, and occasionally about you. I have weaved fantastic tales of temptation and resulting efforts of redemption. I have written poems, mostly very bad and amateurish, but I write because they are my poems, my voice, my dreams, my pain. I also write absurd, phantasmagorical short stories of violence and lost loves. I write therefore I am. I write so I can stay alive on this planet. 

Do you honestly believe, dear reader, whoever and wherever you are, that the writer of the preceding paragraphs suffers from inferiority complex, that he has a low opinion of himself, and that he is bashful and shy and conformist, as a fat, ugly, short, penurious and chronically mentally constipated bitch portrayed him to her parents, her kids, her grandkids, her dogs and cats? 

When Leslie Lovely, the combative, tart-tongued reporter from a "family publication" who fell in love with me during our very first get-together, called me up today and checked on my reactions and "thoughts" about her after our marathon sex session upon the completion her second interview with me, which started on the kitchen floor and ended in the walk-in closet of the master bedroom of  a high-rise condo built in the desert somewhere out in the West of the good, old U.S.A., I told her about JAW's outlandish assessment of me, Leslie exploded:

-Just give me the phone number of the midget bitch. I'm going to give her a lesson. In fact, do you know where she fucking lives? I'm gonna go over there and kick her fat ass until Hell freezes over. 

-Baby, ignore her. Leave the bitch alone. Why do you want to come near a leper? She isn't fucking worth it. She's been going crazy with jealousy ever since she found out I like you.