I have a muse and she is beautiful. She is also very self-absorbed. I mean, she told me to write this.

“Write a story about me.” she said. “Tell them I’m beautiful.”

“OK,” I replied. “If that’s what you want.”

“Yes, that is what I want. I want everyone to know just how wonderful I am.”

“Yeah, but what’s the point of it?”

“Hm?”

“What’s the point of me writing about you?”

“Don’t question me! Just write!”

So here I am, writing about my muse. The thing is, I don’t know what else to say about her. I mean, you’ve read my blog. It’s pretty twisted. That’s because my muse is kind of, well, mentally disturbed. Sure, she’s beautiful and all, but she’s also a bit off.

Last week, she kept telling me to write a story about strawberry jam. I’m like, “Uh, what am I supposed to say about strawberry jam?” “It’s yummy,” she replied. Yeah, thanks for that brilliant insight, muse. So I struggled with that strawberry jam piece for hours, and you know what I got? A giant load of crap. Observe:

There was once this jar of strawberry jam. All day it would just sit in the refrigerator and bother the marmalade.

“Dude, you’re totally marmalade,” the strawberry jam would say.

“Yes, we established that last year,” the marmalade would reply.

“Dude,” the strawberry jam would continue.

“For pete’s sake, what?!” the irritated marmalade would reply.

“You’ve got orange rind in you and shit.”

“Yes. And your point is?”

“You’re totally bitter, dude.”

This went on for some time. Then, one day the refrigerator door opened and the marmalade pushed the strawberry jam off the shelf and onto the linoleum floor. Unfortunately, the strawberry jam was in one of those unbreakable squeeze bottles, so he was just picked up and placed back on the shelf. After the refrigerator door closed, the strawberry jam continued:

“Dude, you totally just pushed me of the shelf!”

“Yeah.”

“That was awesome!”

“Oy.”

“We totally have to do that again, only this time, give me a really good push!”

“Yeah, OK.”

“I want to totally bounce off of that linoleum, man!”

“Yeah, alright.”

“Awesome.”

About an hour later, the refrigerator door opened and the marmalade promptly jumped off the shelf and onto the linoleum floor, shattering its container into several large pieces. Nevertheless, nobody cared, since they never really liked to eat marmalade anyway. They just bought the jar because it looked fancy and impressive when people visited.

Still, the strawberry jam was pretty upset. For days, he just sat in the fridge, mourning the loss of his good friend. It seemed like nothing could make the pain go away. Then, one day, he was introduced to a fresh jar of Georgia peach conserve, and from that moment on, things got very, very sticky. Awww yeahhhh.

Yeah, I don’t know what it means either. In any case, my muse was pleased with my efforts, so I guess that’s all that matters.

By now, you’re probably wondering why I keep this muse of mine around. After all, she’s inspired me to write some pretty weird stuff. To be honest, I’m pretty twisted myself. It’s just that sometimes I get too scared to post a blog entry because it might be too stupid or poorly written. That’s when my muse puts her hands on my shoulders and gives me that little push I need. Just like the marmalade did for the strawberry jam.