“I guess we’re all gonna be what we’re gonna be.”

A good friend wants me to go see the certified psychiatric nurse practitioner that my doctor referred me to when we both agreed that my ADHD meds weren’t working and agreed that I should stop taking them. I started taking the little dose of D-Amphetamine (we used to call it “speed” back in my long, lost, and misspent youth) each day just in time a couple of years ago for me to take my urine test for my new job as an Assistant United States Attorney that I soon gave back to Uncle Sam right after I’d accepted it. I didn’t reject the job because my piss was gonna test positive for amphetamines, but it’s just an hilarious coincidence, huh!

I’m intending at the moment NOT to see the lady shrink to whom I was referred, but the thought of doing so is kind of tantalizing nonetheless. I mean what the hell, not one but four female nurses just saw me naked last week. How much more embarrassing could it be to have a lady shrink crack open my skull cap and take a look inside there? Who knows . . . it could be fun! So we’ll see.

But I told my friend who wants me to see the shrink that I don’t want to mess with my new mistress muse whom I acquired when Karen and I were down in Southwest Georgia visiting our good friends there.

“A Southern Muse,” I told my friend, “THEY’re the best kind! I’d really hate to lose her.”

You see, I started writing “Beg Mercy” a decade ago, got the first five chapters written, and then put the book aside. But since my muse came upon me, I’ve completed another ten chapters on my way to completing another ten or twenty and then the book will be complete, including my epilogue which will include my exegesis of Job 9:15 whence came the title.

“What’s ‘Job 9:15’?” you ask.

Look it up yourself. Jesus Christ! Doesn’t anybody read their Bible anymore?

“What’s a ‘Bible’?”

Oh Gawd! Just shoot me.

(I’ll probably be criticized here for sounding contemptuous of the Biblically illiterate, considering that I was once one such too . . . but oh well. If my seeming contempt motivates one sincere soul to open The Good Book that can save it like it did mine . . . and still does . . . I’ll gladly take the criticism.)

Anyway, my mistress wakes me each morning, and she won’t let me go until I’ve written something here. Something good, I hope. With a teensy, tiny bit of that dread word “discipline,” I should be able to complete “Beg Mercy” and also “The Last Confession” by the end of the year or so, “The Last Confession,” my somewhat-ficitional account of something that really happened in my life, will be the first one completed, because I’ve got some more research to do on the factual “Beg Mercy,” which takes longer than just making up the chapters like I’m doing in “The Last Confession.”

My memoir, “The Story of M.E.H.,” which I’m writing even as I type right now might just take me the rest of my life.

I sure hope that my muse hangs with me until then.