I mentioned in a recent post that I love the concept of fear.less Magazine.
I started laughing today because it hit me that I will never make the electronic pages of fear.less. Never because I fear everything. Everything infinity. I win.
In fact, I started making a list of my fears for this post and had to stop because I started getting scared. I reached for my little fear-killer, Xanax, to calm my frayed nerves. Then @cysticgal tweeted me to let me know that I’d once again managed to included women and alcohol in a post. I felt better and strangely proud because, yes, I can write about subjects I know nothing about.
So, today I decided to start my own anti-fear.less magazine called fear.ful Magazine.
For about five minutes I thought it was a good idea. I even started drafting ideas for it, a table of contents and the cover art.
Here’s my idea for the fear.ful cover:
I’m standing on the roof of a two-story hospital, which is scarier than a 10 or 15-story hospital because I might survive the fall. I’m dressed in a burning chicken suit surrounded by door handles, chest tubes, split infinitives and respiratory therapists – a scary face is painted on the paper bag over my chicken head. An angry doctor is ready to push me off the edge. No need to cast an actor for that role, as I can pull a few from my past to give me a bump. A dozen Cirque du Soleil clowns wait below to catch me with a large paper net doused in gasoline.
All of that sounded great until I became afraid fear.ful would be a huge fail.ure. I’d lose my money, get sued by lawyers and end up in an alley nebulizing rat.
So, I popped another fear killer, kicked back and read some Charles Bukowski, avoiding sleep, fearful of the nightmares that would come from writing this post.