For six months now I’ve been using my right hand only. See the block lettering in this journal. Some parts illegible. My p’s look like q’s. My i’s blend into my u’s. Scribbles. Got to get a laptop.
I’m left-handed. Supposedly. Or, so I’ve foolishly been led to believe all of my life. Whether or not I can switch and go ‘natural’ at age 30, Private Journal, remains to be seen. PJ: I’ll give it the old college try. My best right foot forward. My eternal salvation’s at stake.
Tired of being out in left field (catching right-batted flies).
I’ve been keeping my left hand tucked in my pocket. Or I sit on it keeping it outta sight. Usually I keep it buttoned up inside my shirt. (I get funny looks when I bowl but that’s the price I’m willing to pay for my redemption in getting to be the true person I’m meant to be. Right on!)
When I go to a restaurant (there’s a bistro nearby – posted: for Right-Handed Persons Only! It’s called Right Side O’Tracks Cafe) I fumble and dribble a bit with the spoon and fork, but I’ve finally – through practice makes perfect (and just the right amount of sugarcoated joshing from wait staff) – mastered the butter knife. There’s also a little difficulty with my zipper, but what are right-handed friends for anyway?
At night I have my offending hand tied to the bed post. My landlord, an understanding guy, ties me up. (He says he’s ambidextrous – yeah, sure.) Less you think ill of me, PJ, my ‘bondage’ has nothing to do with preventing daily diddling my way into dreamland. Hey! My right hand knows what my left hand is, er, was doing. And, yeah, I do manage to doze off, even if turning over front to back, or back to front ties me in knots.
Occasionally, PJ, I get twisted up in the sheets. But what the heck. I’ve never been a sound sleeper anyhoo. (ASIDE: my sleep apnea seems worse. My snoring louder. One or two nightmares about left-handed chain gangs. It’ll pass, I’m told. Hang in there. Bite the bullet. Pray. Think positive thoughts. Left is wrong. Right is right! Hup to! Heave ho! Repent! Repent!)
I’m taking what I call “my biblical right to curb and cure my misguided choice,” for as I’ve been told again by my somewhat overly insistent, militantly right-handed neighbors – who never cease patriotically bragging to every so-called southpaw person they meet: ‘Using your left hand isn’t natural. The truth of the matter is that you choose to use it. You can unchoose your choice if you choose to unchoose it. It’s your choice, even ‘tho you think it’s not a choice. Choose for yourself and see. The right choice is yours to choose. Choose or be damned!’
PJ: I’ve always thought that some guys are born left-handed. It’s a matter of genes, DNA, chromosomes, sibling pecking order. Nature, not nurture. Or nookie early on, for that matter. Oh, no! Big mistake.
As my mighty-right do-righters point out again and again at church, the straight-forward fact is that I’ve been leading the abominated Southpaw Lifestyle. Seeking out buddies, bowling partners, bimbos who are lefties. Using left-handed scissors. Blowing my nose left-handed. Hanging out in leftist fast lanes. Getting left behind, spiritually speaking.
PJ: believe me it could be worse. Five percent of left-handers are – would you believe – homos. (It’s bad enough they choose to be left-handed.) Thank God I’m not gay. Hopefully my handwriting and bowling will improve. If only those god-damned chain gang dreams would leave me alone. I wake up screaming.