These open threads are funny things. I mostly keep them short, due to either laziness or deadlines, and hope I have the time and inspiration next week to make one how I’d really like it to be.
In an ideal world, they would all be perfectly crafted essays, my one consistent opportunity to write creatively about anything I choose, Sheepshead Bay-related or not. In an ideal world, it would more often fall on the side of “or not.”
In an ideal world, they would also be funny. But the last few times I’ve sat down to hammer out a more profound scribble I begin with morbid lines like this:
We all have those days in which every fiber of our body fills with frustration, as we, or those around us, fail to achieve as anticipated. It could be personal or professional. It could be practical of philosophical. So long as an expectation can be held, a disappointment can be met.
Barf. Sorry if you like it, but I’ve always felt that angsty Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul nonsense made better tinder than reading material.
And so, I read that, barfed – as you saw – and returned to square one: the blank open thread. And no ideas. And a dwindling deadline.
I suppose, you know, I could just make it short. I could just create the thread and hope you talk. I could just meet the deadline.
And next week, I’ll have more time and more inspiration and I’ll make that perfectly crafted essay that’s funny and touching and profound. Next week. Right.
Written between 11:48 and 11:53 a.m., February 28.
Published 11:54 a.m., February 28.