It was a dark and stormy night

I should have gone into dentistry.

Not that I would be any better at tooth care than I am at writing, but I couldn’t be any worse.

I’m like an actor who can’t act, a teacher who can’t teach, a landscaper who can’t landscape, a stripper who can’t take off his parka.

A lawyer who can’t lawy.

See? That series had, like, five things in it, and every good writer knows that lists work best in threes.

I can’t spell. I can’t punctuate-- I gag on grammar.

I don’t even fit in with literary types. I think transcendentalism is just a bunch of naked guys running around in the woods.

I decided to be a writer when I was a kid so I could be a millionaire and work from home in my Funpals and Underoos. Guess which of those things I’m doing now.

Looks like I may never do the other.

I’m still looking for the written-word equivalent of a James Brown wail.

But, heck, I can’t even finish one book. I haven’t had a chance to be rejected yet.

Instead I sit around and watch as some of my friends get book deals, a couple of which might be huge.

I wish them nothing but ill will. Toilet seat herpes, at least.

I know it doesn’t matter if I’m rich and famous. I can afford my Underoos, and, really, that’s all that matters.

My goal was immortality, but only Shakespeare and a few of those guys are remembered when they’re gone. And they make more enemies than friends every year when they’re forced upon students in English class.

I want more enemies.

So I peer over my beer belly at my laptop screen and clack away, each sentence worse than the last, hoping inspiration will strike.

I know I’ve only written one less good book than Harper Lee.

And it’s too late for dental school.

And columnist Jacob Bennett is tired of living in this hotel, snow and rain fallin’ through the sheets. In fact he’s tired of 23rd Street. Strung out like some Christmas lights at jacobmbennett@hotmail.com.