Stand back, please. This may get messy, and, given my penchant for clumsiness, there is a high likelihood that if you don't maintain a safe distance of at least three feet, I may well land on YOU instead of this trusty sword.
You don't want that, Kaishaku.
And I don't want this.
In mere minutes I perform my literary Hari Kari--writing a recommendation for a fellow playwright who has been nominated in my stead for a prize I coveted. You see, I was the original nominee for the award...Yes, me. But like so many things shadenfreude, the Fates stamped a big ol' red, inky "DENIED" on that dream. Turns out the competition does not accept graduate students. Yep. I guess I'm just too damned educated to succeed.
Thing is, this other guy--the one I'm writing for--he's good. I like his stuff. And I know I can write the kind of recommendation that will make him a front-runner for the prize.
The irony is agony--a blade in my belly: my own penned words scream from their pages, falling on the deaf ears of an anti-graduate student panel, but my endorsement-- spawned from the same mental source and presented in the same word-processing software, will speak loudly and in favor of another.
This disemboweling thing? It hurts.
To whom it may concern: