Taco Tuesday - Special Commentary

Ah, writing contests.  Interested?  Of course not.  Just like those contests for eating, spelling, and rock/paper/scissors, it's basically only interesting if you're the one who entered.  And, yes, it is true that ESPN, the all *sports* network <coughexcepthockeycough>, has been known to broadcast "athletes" chewing, conjugating, and thrusting digits.  However, if you've ended up watching any of those competitions that neither you or your family were actually in, I dare to say your remote/television/life must be broken.  It is the only possible answer. 

And yet, failing to get praise of your story from some quiet corner of the internet is no less depressing then getting that twenty-first hot dog wedged in your windpipe in front of thousands.  They really are about the same thing, a confirmation of talent.  The lack of fame doesn't mitigate the bummer.  It just helps you avoid being mocked with wiener-in-the-throat jokes for the rest of your life.

Ok, losing in the dark is slightly better than failing on television.

Still, it can be embarrassing.  I once entered a contest that seemed like a fun challenge.  It was just about writing a very short story of 500 words or less, and I don't even think there was a prize.  I felt the need to push myself from a scribbling perspective, and wanted to try something new and different from my usual thing.  So, on a lark, I came up with an idea, put it together in one draft, and sent it in.  What was the worst that could happen?

I came in second.

Out of two entries.

Hmm, who's the wiener throat now?

Yeah, I'm the wiener throat.

To be honest, I didn't care too much, especially since I sort of purposefully tanked the contest.  Instead of a normal-ish story that I might otherwise put together, I decided to enter a sentence.  A sentence, as in one.  One 500 word, run-on, no punctuation, stream-of-consciousness, sentence.  Oh, I'm an edgy one.

The theme was to write something about a sibling's room, I think.  Or, um, something regarding childhood.  I can't really remember at this point.  I just know it was a crushing defeat, and that I'm sharing it with you now.  

It isn't taco related, and it barely scrapes the side of Halloween.  But, regardless, it is today's commentary.  Now give me praise.   GIMMEEEEEEEEEEEEE!

This pic sort of makes sense, but no it doesn't

Unless

by your TBW blogger

The door creaked and it doesn’t always creak and I don’t know why that is but it creaked this time and opened slowly to reveal not the typical scratched purple paint plastered with glossy black and white images of morose pop stars who really don’t make popular music but are still considered pop stars because otherwise you’d call them unpop stars which isn’t a thing but perhaps should be but anyway almost every other time those unpop stars look down on me when the door that occasionally creaks creaks open but in this case their sad eyes didn’t meet mine as instead mine were met by a pair of eyes that had looked down on me several times before and though these eyes usually shared a similar morose distinction with that of the plastered ones these eyes instead were in past instances somewhat livelier and occasionally angrier but in this moment right now contained mostly fear and confusion which also held some similarity to the unpop star pinned near the heating vent who appears quite upset at something despite being an unpop star which you’d think would make you happy unless you had your mind set on being a pop star which if that is the case maybe you should not be so morose all the time but anyway the normally morose yet lively and occasionally angry eyes before me now looked in my eyes and not anywhere else but my eyes and I felt uncomfortable as I don’t like so much eye-contact so I looked down which I often do when someone looks me in the eyes for too long as I find this intimidating and weird but when I looked down my eyes were met with the eyes of a glittery pony who had no fear or confusion in its eyes but instead had love and like in its eyes and this put fear and confusion in my eyes so I returned my eyes to look at the opposite pair of eyes whose frightened and confused distinction hadn’t changed during the time in which my eyes had met the glittering pony’s eyes but now as my eyes continued to stare at those same unchanged eyes rather than the eyes of the plastered morose unpop stars or the eyes of the upset unpop star near the heating vent nor the eyes of the loving and liking pony I heard with my ears the sound of a door creaking again.