If I had courage, I would . . .
wear a toolbelt everywhere and with all types of clothing. Like a three-piece suit at a business meeting or a swimsuit at the beach. Though I would have to take it off to swim, as my first try would be my last when the tools dragged me to the bottom of the ocean. That might be the only kink in the plan. However, the toolbelt would be helpful with a business suit. Especially when the smart ass at the meeting says, “hey, Joe Toolbelt, what gives?” One whack of my rubber-gripped hardened-steel hammer to his head would answer that question. “Yeah, that’s what gives, part of your skull, Jerky. Hope you enjoy your stay at the hospital. Now would the rest of you like to hear my idea for increasing revenue or would you like a screwdriver in your ear?”
get a tribal tatoo that covers one of my arms. I want to be a member of the tribe with tribal tattoos, though I’m not sure who exactly is in that tribe. Is it really a tribe? A secret tribe? It looks like a pretty diverse group of people with this type of tattoo. I can’t pinpoint one type. But I know if I got a tattoo to match theirs, then they would regret getting their tattoos because I’d be a member of their tribe and it wouldn’t be a cool tribe if I was a member. No squares allowed. Especially freaks wearing toolbelts all the time. Nope, these secret tribe members would have to go to the plastic surgeon and have their tribal tattoos removed and get new tattoos on their arms. Then they’d start a new tribe. That’s okay. All I wanted was the tattoo, not membership in their stupid club.
wear g-string underwear in the hospital and pretend I was a male exotic dancer. In fact, when anyone asked what I do for a living, that’s what I’d tell them. “Yep, not earning any tips in here while I’m on IVs, am I, Doc?” Then I would make it sound authentic by adding, “The ladies at the nursing home will be missing their love dancer this week. Hey, doc, you think I could do a gig here, in the hospital? Cheer up some patients?” While in my room, I’d play AC/DC and all sorts of dance music and ask the doctors and nurses to tell me if they liked one dance move over another. “Do you like it when I shake my hips first or kick my leg out and pretend I’m a karate guy?” I know this strategy would get me released to do home IV’s sooner rather than later. Nothing scares medical folk more than dealing with a guy in a leopard g wearing a toolbelt and sporting a tribal tattoo on his arm.
write a novel. Yep, I would sit down and finally give it shot and get it out of my system. Or finish one I started. I would overcome the fear that it would suck and would be a complete waste of my time. I don’t think I have enough courage for that. Not in a million years. Can I paste a bunch of blog posts together and call it a novel? Maybe not. Oh, well, let that be a lesson to you. Or not. In fact, there’s not really a lesson in there at all. Not if I have to call it out to you. It has to spring forth organically. This post is a lesson in what not to do. Do you have any idea what I’m talking about? Good. Neither do I, which is exactly why I shouldn’t write a novel. No one would get past the nonsensical first page. Or the picture of me in a g-string on the cover. I can’t get past the stupid male dancer photo I added. It’s creeping me out. What was I talking about?
Um, I would love some cheering up like that while I’m in the hole! All I ever get is silly little dogs that hand out baseball cards with thier picture on it. Not fair!
That isn’t fair. But if I came to your room, I wouldn’t have the courage to do my dance. I could only do it for strangers. Sorry. You’d see me run out, hands hiding my exposed buns.