Debit Card

Debit Card: (n) a plastic card that resembles a credit card but functions like a check 

No one should have a debit card if they don’t know the value of money.

And if they use their debit card poorly, they will soon have a nasty lesson on the danger of money.

I think a debit card is an absolutely marvelous invention—as long as you have money in the bank and you’re just swiping it away.

Yes—how apropos. “Look at me! I’m swiping my own money. I am stealing from myself. Don’t tell anyone.”

Of course, someone is told.

Whoever is in charge of keeping the tally on your balance—well, that individual knows fully well how much money can still be swiped before you are not only a thief, but a criminal.

Money is serious business that should never be taken too seriously.

But when money is not taken seriously, you can get into serious trouble.

I am happiest when I am not dealing with money or debit cards or credit or paying for anything.

I’ve never gone fishing in a lake and had a crab crawl up to me and charge me for the fish I just caught. (That may be because crabs don’t live near lakes.)

But there’s something beautiful about entertaining oneself, or even feeding your face, without spending a dime. But it is not interesting enough that I will actually pursue it.

It does, however, make great verbiage for an article, where you’re trying to be just a little bit cutie—and bitchy—about debit cards.

Copy-edit

Copy-edit: (v) to edit for publication

Although classically it is portrayed that writers suffer “blockage” and are unable to come up with ideas—or even the next line—the truth is,  when a writer is inspired with a good story, the characters often become so verbose, and dare I say overbearing, that the end result is an overabundance of syllables, paragraphs and even chapters.funny wisdom on words that begin with a C

There is actually only one rule in writing, and since there’s only one, we shall not call it a rule, but rather, refer to it as a smiling opportunity.

That would be: “Don’t do anything to interrupt or impede your own story.”

This is why it’s important to copy-edit a book, a story or even an article (such as the one I’m writing to you).

It is not fair to the reader, to get him or her all tied up in useless information about the entwined colors in a particularly plush davenport—when what is happening on the couch is the real gig.

Some writers become fussy and sentimental about one particular thought or character’s involvement. But as you age and mature, you realize that the reader is what you’re writing for—not the approval of other writers or publishers who would jump up and down in great glee if they got the chance to reject a submission from Ernest Hemingway.


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Chloroform

Chloroform: (n) a sweet-smelling anesthetic.

I am a phony.

I’m hoping that if I admit it, I won’t have to be accosted by the critics who discover it.

Here is where my phoniness comes to the forefront: I often think about matters which I insist would be intriguing, but if offered the opportunity, I’d turn it down.

This came to my mind this morning when I looked at the word “chloroform.” I have watched television shows where a character has placed this chemical on a
handkerchief, covering the nose of an enemy, putting him or her into a deep sleep.

While viewing this I have thought to myself, I wonder what that’s like? Is there any pain, discomfort, hangover or headache that would accompany the experience? I am intrigued.

Yet if somebody walked into the room and asked, “Would you like to find out what it’s like to go under?” I would pass.

Any number of situations would fall into this pattern.

  • “I am interested.”
  • “Here you are.”
  • “No, thanks.”

It’s not that I’m a coward. I actually consider myself to be very adventurous. But it’s much easier to envision myself brave than it is to prove it in the courtroom of human events.

I occasionally watch people jumping out of an airplane and wonder if I would actually do it.

It’s ridiculous. Unless the plane was on fire and twelve feet from the ground, I would remain within.

I have avoided friendships, romantic encounters and probably passed up on a good deal or two simply because I could not pull the trigger at the right moment.

I don’t lack experience; I am not a novice. It’s just that in selected moments, I was a coward.

Or maybe I should call myself an “over-stater.”

Yes. That sounds better: “That fellow really over-states his interest level.”

And since I have grown weary of being quite this vulnerable, I shall stop my typing and chloroform this article.

 

 

 

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