In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Trick Questions.”
So, why haven’t you done anything bloggy lately?
That’s a complicated question. I’ve been sulky and I’m complicated. What I’ve been sulky about is pretty dumb and not worth mentioning to a Pulitzer Prize winning figment of my imagination such as yourself. I hope to have something else up besides our interview in the next couple of days.
Speaking of complicated, when was the last time you were really angry with your children? And none of that Atticus Finch stuff, pal. Our readers demand honesty.
Funny you should mention that. I Just re-read The Shining for the first time in years—-
Way to dodge the question there, Donald Trump. Nice combover, by the way. What’s next an angry rant about teh ebil meccicans?
Nobody likes a smartass, dude. Even a handsome and brilliant smartass such as yourself. Mind your manners. You kiss your mama with that mouth? Anyway, I was reading The Shining and two things struck me. 1) Christ, it’s like a teenage girl wrote some of this prose in between writing her One Direction fanfic, and (2) I understand Jack Torrence a lot more now. It’s because all fathers can have a certain wrathful impulse towards their kids ,I think. I’ve never touched one of my kids for the entirety of their young lives. Still, I’ve had moments “Christ, can’t you stop?????” See, those thoughts scare you to death. You think you’re a bad dad.
Ah. You’re admitting to some self doubt. You must really be having a tough time lately.
You’re an asshole. I need a better class of imaginary interviewer.
Since I am only an overly romanticized version of yourself, blah blah blah, insert psychiatric mumbo jumbo here, that makes YOU the asshole.
Who’d you blow to get that Pulitzer?
Who did you blow to get that Pulitzer?
I don’t have a Pulitzer! Forget it, next question.
Last question. Are you happy?
What does that mean?
What does it mean to you?
It could mean anything. Who is happy, really?
Only unhappy people say stuff like that. Misery loves company.
I wouldn’t say that I’m miserable exactly. I’m not inordinately unhappy.
What are you then?
How can you say that? You have a full life.
I can’t help it. I’m lonely. It hurts.
We all hurt, Will. Part of life.
Yeah, a shitty part. I don’t want to talk anymore.