Penicide - An Intervention
Main Entry:
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senicide
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Part of Speech:
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n
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Definition:
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the
killing of an old man or men
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Suicide
–noun
the intentional taking of one's own life.
Penicide
–noun
the intentional taking of one's own writerly
life by slashing one’s fingertips with a quill or other sharp object.
I once threatened to commit penicide on a public forum. Probably not the wisest thing to do. One
afternoon last week, friends and family staged an intervention. I was taken from my laptop forcibly. As I was being dragged away, I lashed out
hoping to grab my spiral notebook but only succeeded in splashing Merlot onto
my pajamas.
I was thrown into the shower until the drain
slowed from the scum. My husband tried
to dress me in clothes but it had been so long since I’ve put on anything
besides sweatpants and a t-shirt that seams were popping and zippers weren’t
zipping. He settled on the nun costume
I wore a couple Halloweens ago.
They threw me into the back of the car and
strapped me in. People stuffed in
around me so that I couldn’t see out the windows to see where we headed. The sensation of motion made me sick to my
stomach. The Great Dane they sat on my
lap to hold me down made me sneeze.
When the car finally stopped I vomited into
a luscious container of flowers rimming the parking lot. I blinked against the glare of sunlight and
tried to recognize my surroundings but the buildings all appeared newer than the
year 2000.
I hyperventilated when I thought of all the
status updates I was missing and the abandoned game of Bejeweled Deluxe on my
computer screen. I tried to get a sense
for how long it had been since I’d last checked my email. 20 minutes?
That’s like three days in agent-response-time! I saw stars and my knees rattled.
“Where are you taking me?” I croaked.
“Honey,” my husband cupped my chin in his
hand, “the kids are tweeting about you.
The postman refuses to come to the door with packages because you’ve
threatened him one too many times when he didn’t present a publisher’s
contract.”
My best friend held her fingers under her
nose when she stepped nearer to address me. “Kai, people think you’ve put
dreadlocks in your hair. The
technicians at Yahoo have threatened to cancel your account because of all the
times you’ve contacted them claiming your email isn’t receiving messages.”
My writer friend looked at me and shrugged,
clearly as confused about what was happening as I was.
“We are taking you to Writer’s Anonymous.”
My sister delivers all news like an evening anchor, professional and without
emotion. “WA will help you admit you have a problem. Then they will help you assimilate yourself back into the land of
the living.”
I frowned and considered her last statement.
Weren’t there dinosaurs in the Land of the Living?
My husband looked pained, but loving. My best friend looked worried yet
hopeful. My writer friend looked like I
was inspiring a story. My sister looked like she could smell me.
I scrunched up my brow and my mouth hung
agape. “WA? Seriously, they call
themselves wah?”
*****
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