Tuesday, August 02, 2005
My Muse: The Little Trollop
Folks, meet my Muse. My giver of inspiration, my heroine of imagination. She's a total whore, lemme tell ya. She's always off cavorting...leaving me at home, no ideas to work with, no genius to spread. She'll seek out my neighbors, she'll diddle my relatives...she'll occasionally do my fellow bloggers...but will she do even the tiniest bit of inspiring for me?? Hardly ever.
This time she walked out in the middle of an article I was writing. She claimed she was just going to take a smoke break and stretch her legs, but this is how it ended up. She stepped out on the street innocently enough, but she ended up falling into conversation with a greasy character and, as usual, she fell for his half-baked lines and dreams of being a big-time writer. I think she's codependent with a few abandonement issues thrown into the stew. Before I knew it she hopped on his crotch rocket and off she flew. I heard through the grapevine that she slept with the guy--some Ethan Hawke knockoff actor who wanted to slum with the writerly types--but she started really regretting it, so she left him to come back to me. She found herself sidetracked on the way home thanks to a bad batch of opium (supposedly left over from her stint as Edgar Allen Poe's muse). The cops told me they found her like this...sprawled out on a table in a warehouse...the card for a topless bar wrapped up in her panties and her pink dress soiled with only God knows what.
And I have yet to finish my article. Fickle bitch.