Exercising My Demons

There are beautiful, iridescent winged reptiles who live in my right brain. When I was a child, they often told me to chase rabbits in the park and to catch insects with my tongue. And I did these things, that is, until I caught a wasp, which was like eating an angry, knife-wielding peanut (picture the guy on the Planters can + methamphetamines + Benihana). Of course, back then I thought my imagination was a literal place.

However, since I learned the word "figurative," these reptiles want other sorts of exercise. They want to fly through words on paper, and flying is treacherous business (if I could think of a funny plane crash, it would go here). When the demons don't fly, they become fat and bitter, slithering about my brain and suggesting things to do, like hissing and biting, which don't go over well in the public library -- although the result there was slightly better than in the biker bar. Reference books hurt less then knives and chains.

So I've consulted their doctor, and we've started an exercise program.