Wednesday, June 24, 2020


If I could, I’d offer myself for archery target practice. Then at least I’d feel something besides empty nausea.

This is my dry, dark wit journal entry. It might not make you laugh, but I’m chuckling and I’m the only one who seems to matter right now, as I’m the only one talking to me, feeding and dressing me, holding me on the couch while I Netflix and chill, replacing the batteries in the vibrator.

I’m pissed. At myself mainly. If I came to me and explained what I’d been through in the last six years, how much energy I’d put into it, how much I sacrificed, the first thing I’d ask me is, “Weren’t you a little underpaid?” Then, “Why do you let people take advantage of you?” And finally, “Have you considered raising your rates?”

How many fish do you think get caught and released more than once? And I want to know why would any creature impale itself for an insect, a fly, a worm? Do you think those fish have Borderline Personality Disorder, or were they traumatized as minnows? Catch and release fly fishermen think they’re so skilled. Tying lures, putting on their wadding boots, wearing those straw hats that only look good on Brad Pitt. Cast and pull, cast and pull. Ten and two according to Robert Redford. Artistry. Brad is only sort of catch and release. He devoured Jen, fileted Angelina. Jen’s the one I worry about. How can they still be friends? An affair can’t get more public than box office cinema. The Smiths need to GAR. It only got a 60% rating on Rotten Tomatoes. We all knew it wouldn’t last.

So the Brown trout, Lenny and Bruce, I see them tagging alongside Jerry the Rainbow, watching him size up that lure as it dances across the water. And Bruce says to Lenny, “Didn’t Jerry just do an R&R stint in the shallows over one of them flashy dames last month?” And Lenny shrugs, which is a hilarious thing to see. A shrugging fish. Those are some incredible pelvic floor muscles you got there, darling.

Jerry, oh Jerry. When are you gonna learn, buddy? A guy like Brad will flash his fly, jerk you off the line, and send you back whether you’re a Rainbow or a carp. Now, if the person on the other end of the pole happens to be a lesbian, that’s a whole other story. It’s rumored that Brad is bi. We should hope. But he’s still catch and release with his fish.

Okay, so that was tasteless. Fishy.

Maybe I’m a suckerfish. There’s no hope for me, really. I’ll be weighed and measured. Someone will stick their fingers in my fishy flesh for a trophy photo, and then I’ll be tossed back. Ad hominem. Ad infinitum. Ad nauseam. You’d think I’d get it. Remain a bottom-feeder and you never risk getting yanked from the water. Or maybe go on a diet. You might live longer either way.

You ever hear of a professional fly-fisherman? Someone pays these folx to endorse a fishing product because they catch the fish who don’t get caught and taken home the first time by the amateurs. These sportsfolk are the players of the aquatic kingdom. It’s their thing to catch a fish, but the real treat is the release. It doesn’t matter how tasty that trout might prove to be, these pole-holders live and die by the mantra: “I caught you because I can.” And because they do, other people flock to them. Endorse my tackle box! Endorse my jigs! Hey Brad! What are you using for attractant and bait this season?

And what’s funny is it’s all camerawork. No, the Smiths do not pull off their own stunts. They’re too busy in the makeup trailer to take on any hard work. And I’m pretty damned sure that Brad Pitt doesn’t know the first thing about anything besides his own pole. Especially catching fish. Those cinematographers though…they know a thing or two about capturing a thing that lives forever, they can take their catch home, and eat it too.

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