I am writer

Today I have decided to give in to two of the voices in my head (Regis and Tito, if you must know) and make an appointment with a Career Assessment Adviser to see if I have what it takes to become a serious writer.

I realize I am a little bit late in the game for this, since I have already had business cards printed up that say Terrence Paquet, Serious Writer, but better now than never.

Fearing our meeting might turn ugly if she tells me I am not cut out to be a writer who is serious, I place a chewed-up pencil with a worn down eraser behind my ear to subliminally tell her that I am a nervous writer who erases a lot of mistakes - in other words, serious. For the record, I have also stuffed my pants with a rolled up gym sock (not mine) and a 5-inch replica of the Eiffel Tower, which says that I am both athletic and cosmopolitan.

Our time is filled with plenty of emotional discussion about my strong moral values, my deep belief in Christianity and my talent for kleptomania.

50 minutes in to the assessment, I realize I have been spilling my guts out to Shirley, the receptionist from the office next door. I suppose the fact that she was constantly answering the phone during our "session" should have been a tip-off, but you know what they say about hindsight. 

By the time I step into the real adviser's office, I no longer feel like talking, so I stare out the window avoiding her questions but doing my best to look "writer-ish", meaning scrunching my forehead as if I was in deep thought and looking inebriated. 

The jabbing pain from the Eiffel Tower in my groin area becomes too unbearable so I cut the meeting short. Surprisingly, she still charges me for a full-priced session. I take solace in the fact that I am paying for this with Shirley's credit card so all is not lost.

As I drive home in a Toyota Corolla (Shirley's, not mine) the pencil falls out of my ear and hits the miniature replica of the world famous monument nestled up against my warm genitals.

It makes a clinking noise on impact.

For me, the sound represents the voice of an angel telling me that no matter what Regis or Tito say, I am a writer. And the rash that has developed from the viscose sock is also the angel telling me to switch to cotton.