Monday, July 22, 2013

This post took a left turn at Albuquerque...

So. A daily regimen of writing.

Pictured: Knock-off Romulan Ale
Some days, inspiration refuses to show up, like that person who promised they’d do something important for you, like come to your party and bring the booze. Then they don’t and you’re left playing beer pong with room-temp tonic water and orange juice and Mad Dog and everyone feels awkward and pissed.

That analogy has never actually happened to me because my anxiety doesn’t allow me to throw the type of parties where it would occur and good lord, I would never even invite friends over for movie night if I couldn’t purchase a 30 case of Busch and couple of bottles of Two Buck Chuck.
But when inspiration doesn’t show up when I ask it to, it is as frustrating as I imagine the above scenario might be.
Sometimes inspiration does show up but it drags you through the swamp to the mulberry trees on the other side…like the hour I spent typing up that first analogy because I wanted it exactly right. So, you travel through the swamp and get all mosquito bitten and ruin your favorite boots because damn it, you can’t just buy mulberries at the grocery store and you want to make some homemade dye for your new renaissance faire skirt.
Okay, that scenario is totally in the realm of possibility for me.

I'm the one in the big hat. Well...I'm the one in the biggest hat. Those are the friends for which I would totally provide cheap liquor on movie night.

Oh, gad. Thank you, BroGirl62. Thank you.
Sometimes inspiration shows up way too early without calling first and follows you around the kitchen throwing ideas at you while you’re trying to make your breakfast of poached eggs and buttered toast and tea. The ideas are like dozens of popcorn pieces being thrown at you, bouncing off your body and falling to the floor and you want to gather them up and plant them and grow popcorn trees, but you really want some poached eggs! 

That’s what happened to me this morning. Because inspiration is a damn flake and I don’t even know why I’m friends with a mental construct. This is what comes of being bipolar. I can’t recommend it.

And now I have to drive the hour to my old apartment again, because this is cleaning week before I turn it back over to the landlady.

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