How do I love me? Let me count the ways. I love me to the depth and breadth and height a giant billboard proclaiming my 89th-place finish in the 80th Annual Writer's Digest Writing Competition, Memoirs/Personal Essay category can reach...Yeah. I kind of like the ring to that. I might just call it Sonnet 89.
There's a wall of billboards across the road from the exit to the local state prison. I'm sure my accomplishment would be well-received by that demographic. I could point such lovers of the fruit of my quill toward my house for tours. They could sit raptly at my knee, listening to my tale of entering the contest at the last minute, when I accidentally discovered that the deadline had been extended. I might even feed them some pretzels shaped like "89s", and give them some sweat off my brow in a Dixie Cup to wash them down. They're not going to complain. They've just escaped from prison, out the front door.
Don't even think I'm going to let this claim to fame go gentle into Old Posts so soon. I'm going to milk this aphid like an ant jonesin' for some sweet, sweet aphid honeydew. That's a little symbiosis joke for all the science teachers out there. A mutualism joke, specifically. But a science teacher would know that.
On Saturday or Sunday, I will post my 89th-place, self-aggrandizing work of embarrassing mediocrity. But I've still got some braggin' to get out of my system. We narcissists are like that. It's what makes us especially endearing to the masses.