EKPHRASTIC EXPRESSION
Frustrated Writers Need Lizzie Lizard Brain to Survive Gas Chamber
Long-suffering son offers an example of the disturbed writer’s work
I am Horatio Hernando Hightower, Maude-the-Murdering-Manuscriptor’s son. Originally, my family came to the attention of Medium readers in Sexually Ambiguous Alligators Rocking in Florida, where I was identified as Cabbage. Mother began calling me by this adorable nickname based on my pleasing aroma when I was a warm toddler bundled in love.
I am here to set the record straight.
As all opportunist writers do, Patricia Jeanne exploited my mother’s story and implied I was responsible for having Mommy Dearest kidnapped and held in isolation so she could finally — as she put it — write in peace without my barely breathing to disturb her.
The facts of my mother’s story are in dispute, as are those responsible for multiple deaths and Detective Hector’s scratched phone. (Mother’s attempts at editing using scissors were futile in a Notes app.)
I’m turning over these documents in an effort to explain what led to my mother’s unfortunate, but completely understandable actions.
Publisher’s note found near 1992 Windows XP monitor atop a 2,832-page story titled “A Five Minute Read from a Writer’s Life.”
What is this? It’s funny, smart, disturbing, thought-provoking, and stupid as sin. I don’t know if I need a hug or to go start a bar fight. WTF am I supposed to do with your schizophrenic journal/story? I’m too young to retire at 23 and too old to pretend I never saw it and crawl back under my blankie with my binkie.
You’re destroying my mental health and this isn’t the type of empathetic, reciprocal relationship my therapist advocates! I couldn’t get past the part about the gay ironic penguin who wanted to become an asterisk.
Perhaps you should try another publication — there’s one in your kitchen under the sink.
Love, Editor Bob
A Five-Minute Read from a Writer’s Life
We all have thoughts that sometimes seem to come out of Left Field. “Hey, let’s create an algorithm for passwords relying on emotions!”, “My in-laws need to return to Planet Clueless in a hot air balloon navigated by Curious George and scorpions.”, and “Would he go well with Brussels sprouts?”
I’m sure readers can relate. My sister says her therapist believes they’re common. The ropes that bind humanity into one pulsating orb.
Apparently, we’ve all got the equivalent of FedEx managers, a Taiwanese diplomat in Iran, an NBA referee who isn’t taking bribes, and a stripper named “Horrible Horse” helping us navigate everyday life.
I’ve got a few special extras.
My most vocal contributor is a clever adolescent who aspires to become a world famous stinky fart. Or a self-obsessed billionaire hacker, since her short attention span and morality could take her either way. I’ve spent decades trying to keep the character I call Lizzie the Lizard Brain (sometimes Bossy Bitch) restrained.
Fortunately, I share a birthday with Mother Teresa and past President Lyndon B. Johnson and they’re pretty assertive when they want to be.
The skinny saint keeps whispering “Please —give me a burrito! Then we’ll feed all of mankind. But keep me alive,” while the ruler of the free world asks, “Did you pay your cellphone bill? You can’t deliver civil rights without an internet connection.” But Miss Lizzie I-used-to-be-a-Borden creates bliss molecule brain chemistry spikes, so she gets the most mic time when I’m not in the zone focused on humanity’s salvation.
All the loudest thoughts agree writing is better than my previous full-time job of worrying over my aborted abortion’s future. (Lizzie — Down!) Writing pays better than worrying — sometimes as much as $0.43 an article!
But the voices in my head never, ever agree on topics or style. Even when medicated or threatened with targeted radiation treatments, Lizzie smirks and quips “You’ll never find me!” then she whispers “You really wanna be stuck with them?” She has a point(ed head.)
Not surprisingly, Lizzie prefers video games over work. She gets extremely rude when the efficient FedEx tracking manager insists on productivity. If forced to, she helps write satire and tries to sneak her brand of snarlcasm into technical writing. Goading a user who has trouble with a “Name” prompt is one thing, but when she wrote I’m Sorry My Piece Didn’t Leave You in Stitches and added “actual hospitalization would’ve been nice,” it cost us subscribers!
I think, “It’s time we finished the piece on Conspiracy Theories, despite the vapid alien forces working against us.”
Lizzie screams “No! If we have to think and write at least let’s be dedicated! It’s biting social commentary delivered like maniacs or nothing!” Then she argues with the others over what video game to play.
Mother Teresa is up for Connect Three Jewels, the former President wants to play Civilization VI, and Lizzie searches for a more graphic violent game than Call of Duty.
“Okay, let’s work on the wildly creative follow-up to why the old lady writer got kidnapped and killed a bunch of people. The editors and audience are really wonderful,” I suggest.
President Johnson interjects, “You two need to compromise for the good of the host nation. We haven’t stopped sneezing in 3 days and our head hurts.”
Lizzie the Lizard Brain smirks and becomes a suspect in pain delivery — she likes it. Her green serpent tongue flicks at President Johnson, signaling an attack. “I’d think you’d want to play something more violent Mr. Lets-send-more-troops.” Her green scales begin to shimmer.
Lyndon Baines scowls. “Like I told Oswald, just because you can do something, doesn’t mean you should. I’m in a rebuilding phase.”
Saint Teresa begs, “Feed me! Then we’ll take a lovely walk and treat some lepers. Or people coughing without masks.”
The normally quiet FedEx guy who hates returns reminds Lizzie “Your last piece was rejected. They’ve put out a hit on you.” [Bob — ‘put out a hit’, or ‘put a hit out’? Get back to me in 5 minutes or I’ll show up in your kitchen.]
Lizzie screams, “You had me tied up while Saint Snotty held me underwater! Thank Zeusius Zulemon it wasn’t published! I’d have died of embarrassment and my reputation would be ruined!”
A quiet brooding Camus character mumbles “At least it featured Nietzsche and Confucius helping an idiot. Better than your ‘Woe is me Walmart.’ piece. Why do you bother writing when you’re depressed?”
Lizzie’s forked tongue dances as she hisses, “Go to Hell!”
Camus asks, “Which circle? Nietzsche wants a cutesy meetup.”
Lizzie has an idea. “Let’s write for the one Smillew Rahcuef pointed us to with the freaky stuff. They might even accept my drawing that made our simpering kid cry. You know, he needs more practice holding his breath. I’ve got an app for that.”
Johnson reminds her, “Even AI said your picture idea was disturbing, and it didn’t see the image. Who knew ChatGPT could initiate a 72-hour psych hold? I thought Reagan had those mental hospitals shut down so he could get a good game of human dominos going.”
My unnamed content supervisor finally makes an appearance. “We’re not writing for profiles with names referencing the statutes they served time for. They might have defective ankle bracelets.”
Lizzie barks, somehow conveying equal parts viciously terrifying and riotously funny. [Bob, find me a photo of a baby hyena on crack!]
“Let’s write satire about hacking the UN, World Bank, and Pentagon. It’ll be a great companion piece for all your lame ‘I’m a freaking humanitarian hamster’ shit. We’ve really gotta keep Saint Teresa the Tenacious Tyrant and the Equal Justice snooze from cohabitation. Go blow your honker Mr. Sniffles! This runny gunk could solve California’s drought! Your head feels ready to pop like a French poodle balloon in a Canadian wildfire. Pain is pleasure, but this is too much pressure.”
And then she winks at Mother Teresa!
Starved sobs and threats of senate subcommittees fill the room.
Camus offers sleeping pills, shaking his head at the absurdity.
[Bob, get back to me — what does an aneurysm feel like? I swear, this story is on its way. I think an ironic homosexual penguin trapped in a forest with mutant fairies trying to fight generations of dysfunctional inbred Kings and Queens in a Game of Thrones meets Harry Potter fighting for child-pet custody amid a Hobbit land of fantasy with social commentary on Facebook and Elon Musk taking over Jupiter is going to be the next big hit! Should I add time travel, you think?]
Shut up Lizzie — we don’t need erotic cannibals!
You see from her manuscript my mother wasn’t well. Her editor Bob did not respond promptly, so the dead and maimed are his fault.
No?
Mommy says editors do not require sleep since they’re blood-sucking vampires. Bob doesn’t agree. He fled the country shortly after Mom appeared in his bedroom at 3:32 a.m. on Tuesday demanding answers.
Contrary to previous reports, Mommy Dearest’s ‘kidnapping’ was pre-arranged by herself so she could enjoy quality undisturbed writing time.
And I had absolutely nothing to do with any of it.
almost none.
It turned out her open faucet dripping nose was actually leaking spinal fluid, so she might have been… compromised. But she’s fine now, so her life should be spared. The death penalty would unjustly extinguish multiple personality’s disorders.
Despite alluding to her ‘sister’ in the manuscript, Mother has no siblings as of last year when Aunt Saulty suffered a freak electrocution at a windmill.
Detective Hector is expected to make a fullish recovery.
At which time I’d like my “Hang in there!” cat poster back from Mom’s cage.
Thanks for reading. Lizzie the Lizard Brain wouldn’t STFU — sorry.
Lizzie Lizard Brain has been evicted from Patricia Jeanne’s profile. Her influence cannot be extinguished (heaven forbid!), but she needs her own space to be as weird and unchained as her icy cold, rock-hard, degenerate heart desires. She announced her independence in pictures and insanity.
I hope you’ll follow and enjoy her there.
Others in the Cabbage Patch Dysfunctional Family series here.
Lizzie lying —
And Lizzie medicated or muffled —
