Writer’s Injuries That Should Be Covered By Workers’ Compensation
I’m going to email my Congressperson, as soon as I figure out who that is.
- I moved my laptop screen a quarter of an inch from its normal angle and now I can’t turn my head. Can I put Icy Hot on my neck? What if it penetrates my spine, paralyzes me from the neck down, and then I need a service monkey? I’m not sure I’m ready for the responsibility of owning a monkey.
- I have writer’s butt from sitting in one place for hours at a time. I look like a Weeble. Or a particularly lifelike potato.
- Nobody knows what a Weeble is. Please send my Social Security checks immediately.
- I don’t write enough. My compensation should be based on what I would’ve earned as a writer had I fulfilled my promise, instead of seething with jealousy for several decades at successful writers who actually spent their time writing instead of seething with jealousy.
- I can’t read my handwriting. I have notes everywhere, scribbled on one of 15 million notepads that my mom gets from St. Jude’s. Much like Hemingway, I have two kitchen drawers full of nothing but notepads. Mrs. Hemingway was always saying, “Ernie, what’s with the notepads? Where am I supposed to put the can opener?” The problem is that I can’t read my writing, which is my the Millenials banned cursive.
- My boyfriend refers to me as “a writer” when he introduces me to people. This gives me a stabbing pain in my spleen and I have to go lay down. I can’t handle this kind of pressure.
- If I read something for inspiration, I can’t think of my own, original ideas. All I can think about is the thing I read. This has got to be a disease of some kind. Brain Lock? Copy Cat-itis? #ihavenotalent
- Back to my neck. Now it hurts when I swallow. I know it’s just because my neck is stiff, but what if it’s cancer? Can you get Social Security Disability for being a hypochondriac? Please say yes.
- If I think about something too much, I can’t do it. Like writing. Or chewing. Or breathing. Oh my god, now I’ve forgotten how to breathe. In, out, in, out. Ugh, I’m doing it wrong. The only cure is puppy videos.
- Even though I want to be a writer, I will do literally anything else to avoid writing. Clearly, I have been damaged from being a writer and should receive a regular, sizeable paycheck from the Bureau of Worker’s Compensation every month. You don’t see Simone Biles cleaning her house obsessively because she doesn’t want to catapult off a pommel horse at 50 miles an hour (I don’t watch gymnastics, I have no idea if this is accurate). I lack dedication. I should clean my house while I think about that. Oh, look! Chipmunks!