Courtesy of Deviant Art
Last night I was watching an episode of House and as I'm sitting there laughing at how he treats his minions with his usual comforting and kind way, it hits me....House is my POD. You know, both of them have a certain knack with people. Yes, my POD is House... abrasively charming, nobody understands me, and hardcore I-really-couldn't-give-a-hill-of-beans-about-you-because-it's-all-about-me attitude. *sigh*
I hate the POD. Yes, I know I said I liked him for a bit there awhile back, but I'm back to hating him. Well, maybe hate is a strong word. No. Actually, hate suits me just fine right about now.
I am once again his puppet and I have this little problem with being controlled. As you know, I'm taking this Project Seminar course where we are required to write X amount of pages for the semester and hand in submissions in any genre we like - poetry, play, short story, screenplay, or memoir. Well, I've already exceeded the X amount of pages requirement and should just sit back and coast for the rest of the semester, no? No. He's not having it. He's not accepting any of the work submitted as part of my portfolio. Why? Because this is who he is. He makes his own rules and then breaks them as he sees fit. Hey! Buddy! This is not the way it's supposed to work! I see what you're doing. I see you accepting other writer's works, why can't you accept mine? Because.
Because this is the relationship between me and my POD. He loves to torture me and see me sweat and see me get frustrated. He likes to bring me to the precipice of madness and whisper in my ear, "Jump!" But he knows me well already and is taking much pleasure because he knows I'm no quitter and that what I will do instead is step aside and point the way and tell him, "you first."
No, the POD is requiring my soul again. He will not settle for less. The play that I submitted - which I thought pretty decent - he rejected. Too dramatic, he pontificates. It's supposed to be dramatic, Dr. Ballbuster.
I then submitted two poems - a genre I'm not comfortable in but I pushed myself because poetry is hard to write. Nope. Rejects it. Yet, I thought my submissions to be much better than some other ones submitted - but what do I know, I'm a minion. "You're trying too hard," he says. Oh, you think? But, hey, "can I get kudos for using the word neologistic? Wasn't that clever?" No answer. Just a batting of the eyelashes as a warning sign that if I don't quickly leave his Space of Grace, the verbal flagellations will soon begin. I depart with tail between my legs and grateful that I have been spared. But am I crushed, yet? Nope. Nowhere near there.
"Give me Genesis", he says as I start to walk away.
"Huh?"
"I said, work on Genesis. That is what I want from you."
A heavy sigh escapes my lips and my shoulders fall in defeat. "But I'm done with Genesis," I meekly respond.
"No, you're not. Go back to it. I want more. I want to know about Zafalon. What's going on with Zafalon?"
"Zafalon's a freak, end of story." I know the story is not yet finished, but I was hoping to coast this semester. Can you give a girl a break?
"Good. Great. It has potential. You're nowhere being done."
"I'm not feeling him. I can't channel him." I'm trying to reason with the unreasonable.
"Read Communion. You'll channel him soon enough."
"I'm not reading Communion again. You told me to read that last semester and I couldn't sleep for days. I refuse to read it again."
"Read it and stop your whining. I want ten pages by next week."
I walk away, mumbling under my breath, I f*cking hate you, you sadistic bastard. I'm all tapped out here. I don't know where I'm going with that little freak I created and I really could use some time off from the dark side...blah, blah, blah, blah, blah... I turn around. He sees my discontent. He smiles. I hate you, blah, blah, blah...
I submit first draft of Zafalon, whom I can't tap. I don't get this kid yet. I don't want to make him the generic hybrid we've all been accustomed to reading about. But, I have to submit something. I have to start somewhere. The seeds need to be planted. He' a genius. Gee, I didn't see that coming. He's a freak and can't connect with kids his age. *Yawn* really? Kid's gonna save the world. Wow! Now that's original! Garbage, garbage, garbage. My little friend in class who's a real genius and is 15 years old taking this course says it's a bit boring. I tell her, I couldn't agree with you more. I plan to scrap it but the POD says it's got potential. Oh, yeah, show me where? Cause I'm not seeing it! Garbage. What I need is a slam-dunk kid with varied weird, scary, freaky type of personalities; the kind of kid that will make you jump out of your skin.
Then I have a thought. This was his plan all along. I verbalize it....open that door. How about instead of having him be another save-the-world good-boy hybrid, why not make him evil? And why not make him a girl?! A nasty, evil girl that looks real sweet on the outside and nobody knows she's this sadistic freak on the inside? I was halfway kidding and was actually speaking of him, but, well, he didn't get it. Well, call it Christmas Day because the POD's eyes lit up so brightly it nearly blinded me. He likes the word nasty and he likes the word evil and he likes, most especially, the word freak. And for the hybrid to be in female form, well, this was just too much for him. He started salivating like a rabid dog.
YES! YES! YES! Go with it! Let yourself go! Don't hold back! Give me evil, give me dark, give me naassssttttyyyyy! That's what I was waiting for!
Mother effer is a freak and is never happy unless I tap into my Vader. And I'm just not the brightest because I should know better. Why oh why did I open that door? Now I'm breathing just as hard as Darth Vader but more from anxiety than anything else because how am I going to do this? Another lovely trip to the dark side where I will consider gouging my eyes out as a alternative to writing. My light saber(ed) quill cannot pen the dark world this man is imagining. Obviously, he believes I can do this. But, can I? Probably. Who knows, let's see if I have it in me. He already has his friggin' X amount of pages and I should be done. But he's not having it. And I hate him. But, then again, he wasn't the one that opened that door. No. Correction. That was me. So, I guess I should hate me. And the descent into that dark, dark world has now begun.....
