After reading all the stories from my fellow Sunshine Mermaids and Mermen, it was with trepidation that I accepted the Butt Glue challenge. Some members had developed speedy finger syndrome and experienced supercalifragilistic results after applying the Butt Glue; others claimed they were transported to interesting places, and a few developed a desire to listen to weird music while writing. Apparently, this small pot of goopiness delighted in individualizing each of its victim’s creative illusions, or perhaps I should say…fantasy.
Much to my surprise, by the time I mustered up enough gumption to apply a dab of the white potion, nothing happened. I squeezed that little bottle and all I got was something that sounded like an exhausted gasp. I shook the bottle, and squeezed again. Still no glue. I must confess, the thought of an empty bottle left me a tiny bit relieved. After all, it wasn’t my fault if the people before me were overly zealous and used all of the sticky goop. Plus, I was off the hook to continue merrily on my procrastination trek.
A few nights later, when I was supposed to be sleeping, a little voice called my name. I strained to hear. Nothing. I closed my eyes. The voice called again. Not wanting to awaken my hubby, I eased from the bed and groped through the dark to my office. Sitting next to the computer, with the moonlight illuminating its square body and skinny neck, sat the bottle of butt glue.
The little orange cap twisted, and using its empathic ability said, “I’m all rested so c’mon, a little dab will do ya.”
I offered a smug smirk. “Nope, I don’t need you to make my daily writing goal. And furthermore, I refuse to be the object of your sadistic pleasure.”
Cross my heart and hope to eat soap, the bottle winked and smiled. “Tell ya what, I’ll let you sleep late. Let’s make a date for 11 AM tomorrow. Apply a dab to each cheek. Ya know, not the cheeks on your face, and I promise to give you bathroom breaks. Deal?”
This is crazy. I’m making a pact with an inanimate object. This really makes me a candidate for the loony-bin. I shrugged. “Yeah, okay…whatever.”
At the appointed time, skeptical that Butt Glue would behave, I kept my end of the bargain. And so did he. Well, sorta.
Transported to Africa’s Dark Continent, I sailed down the Congo River. Days came and went, words flowed, lions roared, hyenas laughed, a witch doctor conjured magic, and my snooty heroine made goo-goo eyes at the hero. The hero, great white hunter that he is, enjoyed his booze, a little too much. Crocodiles ate people, and hippos capsized canoes. My brain worked overtime, my fingers flew across the keyboard. Yeah, buddy, my African adventure was developing into a kick-butt story. And I was falling in love with Butt Glue.
On our agreed upon deadline, and with 45,000 words logged in, I had lived up to my end of the bargain. I yawned and stretched, and looked forward to crawling between the sheets. I tried to stand, but my butt was stuck to the chair. If I forced myself to rise, I knew an inch of skin would peel from the back of my legs. “Listen, Butt Glue, we had a deal. I’ve fulfilled my end, so release me, and gently.”
The little sucker gurgled a giggle, and tightened its grip.
Exhausted and not to be outwitted by a white plastic goop filled bottle, I picked it up and twisted its scrawny orange neck. “If I leave an inch of hide when I get out of this chair, I’m unscrewing your pointy little head and filling you with hot water, and then I’m flushing your contents down the drain. Your choice… survive to torment a few more writers, or live out the remainder of your days as a useless empty container.”
Butt Glue took me at my word, and released its hold allowing me to ease unscathed from my chair. Feeling pretty good about my word count, I switched off the light to my office, and just as I was pulling the door shut, Butt Glue sighed, “It’s been fun.”
I inched the door open and blew a kiss toward the little guy. Much to my relief, the love affair was over.
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