I was wasting my time and cooling my heels re-watching ‘The Wire’, and getting pleasantly smashed while drinking beer and wine. It was shaping up to be a good day.
Presently, I heard screeching tires and gravel slinging and peppering against my window.
Most Def, MY Muse, just returning from Yet-Another-Waco Trip to check on Her ‘Other’ Client… had come home.
Apparently she had received an ‘Infidelity Alert’ on Her Cell Phone.
(Yeah, That is an Actual ‘Real-World-Muse App.’)
An App She, I assume, Paid Good Money For, And To My Misfortune. She’d Had Time To Read/Listen To The Message as she was driving home to Me. I had quickly reached this assumption—not as dumb as I appear at first glance.
She was getting her money’s worth.
And I knew instinctively that I was properly fucked.
(Iraq was never this scary)
She Burst in with Fire-in-Her Eyes.
I ran for the head, shut and locked the door.
Muse screamed at me, “Bring your Cheating Ass out here RIGHT NOW, OR I’M GONNA HUFF AND PUFF!”
I cautiously unlocked and opened the door.
Time to Face Her Music.
She didn’t physically attack me, (this time), But The Fire Flashing from Her Eyes was more than enough. Way more than enough.
“You Ungrateful, Ignorant Bastard! Did you not think I would read that Lame-Ass Post Fawning all over that Hippy Slut Suzanne Verdal?! You wrote, and I quote, and let me remind you, you are rarely ‘quotable,’ You wrote,
‘Fascinatingly, Beautiful, Fantastic, Ethereal Woman.
And The Quintessential, Perfect Muse.’
“But, I was trying to illustrate how even Leonard Cohen needed a Great Muse, just as I do. Writers are NOTHING Without Their Muses. And you are The Greatest Muse in All of Christendom.”
“Shut the Fuck up. Don’t try to blow smoke up my ass!”
“But Musey, I stammered…”
“What part of ‘Shut-The-Fuck-up’ do you not understand? Park your ass in front of that keyboard and ‘try’ to ‘write’ something half-ass decent. If you can do that, I may, maybe, just consider forgiving you. I do make allowances for your weaknesses and your mental, lean-talent limitations. You have two hours to come up with something that may resemble ‘writing.’
And if YOU EVER call me ‘Musey’ again, ever, on any day from this day forward, that day will be your last.”
I could tell she weren’t ‘playin’, so, I ‘shut’ed’ the fuck up, deposited my ass on my writing chair and started writing.
She sat down on The Nasty Couch and turned on CNN. (She HATES CNN)—This did not bode well for her mood, nor for me.
In My Future (Perhaps):
To Be Continued…