Last week, while reading David Sedaris' Me Talk Pretty One Day, I thought to myself: "I can write like this. Hell, I could probably write better than this. Why don't I?"

The answer slowly dawned on me this last few days: I don't have any "Artist" stories.

As vague as that term is, you know what I mean. I've never cut off a body part out of angst, or even to prove my affection for someone. I once entertained the thought of keeping every strand of hair cut off my head, but that didn't last: the envelope I used to catch the falling trimmings started to burst at the seams. I've only worked one superbly mis-matched job, and was fired rudely after spending two weeks trying to give notice of a day I needed off.

While I engage in crazy self-narration, it only happens with people, not places, objects, animals, or events. And, while I like to think that I'm pretty open to new experiences, I'm ultimately (like everyone else), a creature of habit.

I have, at best, three stories that are really worth strangers' time. But, after the sheer "I can't believe this is actually happening"-ness of last night, I've now had a taste of "Artist" stories.

And man, I ain't ever going back.

--Aidan

P.S. I'm considering writing up the tale of last night. But, because of some parts (nothing lewd, I just don't feel it should be publicly accessible), I don't want to send it to you here. Instead, if it ends up being written, I'll send it out through a private email list. And, of course, you can subscribe if you want to, Post.