I’m gearing up to write a long post about my latest fixation. Soon, I will do that, but not exactly yet. First I have to drag my feet a little, have some ADD-distraction episodes, decide that as I get older, I am getting stupider (stupider, but not dumber – I still talk as much as I ever did, I just don’t make as much sense), walk around the house aimlessly for  awhile, and then, finally, I will sit down to write, at which time I will decide that I have nothing important to say, and that it’s not nice to bore my three dedicated readers. I try to put off today what I can probably put off tomorrow. That’s the way I roll.

Here is a fantastic story about a guy who also has problems writing. It’s really good. Short, too. You should read it. Thanks to CHM CHM for turning me on to it. http://smokelong.com/flash/danielriordan39q.asp

I do know about coming up with bad ideas. Here is something I wrote a long time ago called “The Unlikely Muse”.

The Unlikely Muse has no sense of personal space. He barges in when I’m in the shower or on the toilet. When I am trying to pay attention to something smart people care about, like a lecture on the Mayan Popul Vuh or physics, the unlikely muse jumps on my lap, which is not as adorable as it sounds since he is morbidly obese and sweaty, and breathes beery, burpy breath in my face, which fogs my glasses in sea foam green.

“Don’t listen to that shit!” he croaks. “Write about a guy who wears two pairs of socks every day! You know, a top pair and then undersocks! Yeah! And make him from Finland! Now that’s gonna be a great story!”

The Unlikely Muse crawls into bed with me, though I’ve told him politely and repeatedly that we are just friends. He sticks his slobbery tongue in my ear and his hand up my shirt while I sleep, drooling on my neck and poisoning my dreams. That’s how I saw Danny DeVito naked on a tractor, playing with his chest hair, and, shall we say, “eager to do some plowing.” It’s an image that may haunt me forever.

Sometimes he (the Unlikely Muse, not Danny DeVito) has conversations with things I shove into the furthest recesses of my subconscious, calling them forth, coaxing them out, then dancing the lambada under a strobe light with them. The ‘forbidden dance’ with ghosts, with things I obsessively put off, grinding his pelvis into my secret, hidden fears, dipping my character flaws so their hair sweeps the ground, a red rose between his yellow teeth –  It’s hard to ignore stuff like that. The muse likes to dance all night and he has no sense of rhythm.

He farts words and vomits phrases. He never bathes and the scent of him lingers after he’s gone. He leaves rings in my coffee cups, dog poop on my shoes, and  he won’t let me exercise. I’ll bet I’ve gained 20 pounds from all the cheese he shoves down my throat. He says, “Pull my finger! C’mon! It’s Sexy!” and “You know, people actually love to be offended, Fucktard!” and “The way to impress strangers is to make them think you think you are better than them!” and “Why don’t you write a long piece about ME that goes on and on and never gets anywhere!”

Shit! He did it again! The Unlikely Muse is one super sneaky stealth-Ninja. I never know when he’s coming, but I always know where he’s been.

 Eww.