Smell

In response to reading Ray Bradbury's "The Emissary," I found it necessary to write this.

This (or a version of it) will also be posted on Sam Weller's Ray Bradbury blog, once it's up!

Well hello, smell. Where have you been in all my stories? Because here you are in Mr. Bradbury's story, all perfectly described so I can actually smell the words. But you haven't been hanging out with my writing lately, or maybe ever. (Oh, smell, meet Logan, my writing. He's incredibly sexually frustrated at the moment, so please don't tease him.)

So smell, what's the deal here? Because I'm kind of pissed. Why? Why am I pissed? Do you really need to ask? It's it obvious that I'm pissed because clearly you've been ignoring me for much more accomplished writers, like Mr. Bradbury, and that is so not cool. I thought we were friends, smell! Isn't it you who triggers basically all my memories with nary a word? Isn't it you who clues me into the coming changes of season? And isn't it you who reminds me a boy has been in my bed when I put my face in the pillow at night? I thought we were pals, smell, but if we really were, wouldn't you have shown up in at least one of my stories? Pretty much all my friends have, but noooooooo, smell, not you.

What's wrong, smell? Are you too good for me? Is that it? You don't want people to know we hang out? You wouldn't call what you did "ditching me for better writers" per se, more like "taking a breather from my claustrophobic co-dependency issues"? So not cool, smell. You know I'm sensitive about my issues!

Fine, smell. Fuck you! Just go! Go hang out with Mr.Bradbury and be all perfectly described. Go be The sense in "The Emissary." See if I care! Me and Logan my writing won't miss you.

OK, maybe we will, but like hell if I'll let you know it!