-Cheaper than Therapy..-

And better than chocolate. I feel an incredible high during and hours after a writers' group discussion. They have to tackle my work last - it was my privilege for submitting the longest, densest, deepest story.

Critique the poets first, yes, gush encouragement for the novices. Let the tension build for the main act, my epic opus coup de grace. We all know that our literary doyenne is saving the most durable work for last.

Work it, y'all. Ponder the professional nurse's thinly-veiled autobiography. Fret over the adolescent's X-mas Snuff Limerick.

Break for trips to the bathroom. Break for punch. I can wait.

What? You can't - there's still one more to study before mine! Seriously, babe, you don't wanna go before I do, it would be anti-climactic.

You'll pay for this, all of you. You wanna finish with the baseball story? It doesn't matter! You know you'll just be thinking of mine when you walk out of here. Every last one of you is going to put on your favorite flannel pajamas - 'cept the snuff bird, who I'm peggin for a nickel-plated choker - curl up with that special someone tonight an' look up at glowing stars the previous couple pasted that you can't be bothered to take down even though it pisses you off every night.

Penultimate. You even know what that means?

So you're looking up until the stars put you off and you turn on your side, sure to make an orthopedic surgeon a very nice patient some day. Your partner has never looked fatter, and your mind logically connects your history of amorous clusterfucking with your great, dirty failure ranking stories.

No, don't think compliments help. I'm not here to warm up the crowd.

Frickin' baseball.

Our time is up! Sorry we couldn't get to your story, guess mine was last after all. Yeah, so I won on a technicality.

It counts.