Penicide - An Intervention

Main Entry:  
Part of Speech:  
the killing of an old man or men

the intentional taking of one's own life.

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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Occasionally, I resurrect a favorite post of blog days past. If you recognize this post that would be why, and you have a good memory.


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