I met my muse. I finally met my muse.
OK, I know what you’re thinking: “Smivey, how could you possibly be inspired by someone you’ve never met?” It’s either that or you’re thinking about cheese. I’m not sure. That’s just the vibe I’m getting. Anyhow, I’m going to tell you about meeting my muse. If you want to learn about cheese, go to this blog and leave me the fuck alone.
Now then, the first thing you have to understand is I’m rather shy. My muse calls it being “a royal pain in the ass,” but that’s neither here nor there nor behind that bush. The fact is, I don’t like to deal with people so much. At work, it’s another story. I’ve learned to adapt and I actually enjoy interacting with my co-workers. But outside of the office, I prefer to be left alone. That’s just the way I am. Deal with it.
Which brings us to the problem: Not many people can deal with it. Sure, they might enjoy my company online, but after a while, they need more. Yeah, that’s right, a face-to-face meeting. For most, this would be easy. You might actually look forward to meeting a person you’ve spent so many evenings with online. But for some of us—mainly me—this kind of thing goes against every grain of our souls.
So why did I finally agree to meet my muse? Rather than get into a four paragraph explanation, I’ll give you the one sentence answer: She gave me an ultimatum. “Smivey,” she said, “if you ever want me to leave Gino, you’re going to have to meet me.”
For those of you who don’t read my blog religiously (shame on you), Gino is the poet who has been shacking up with my muse. Apparently, he’s a better brooder than I am and he’s amazing in the sack. Also, I hear he’s good at sex.
Anyhow, so my muse told me that she couldn’t possibly inspire me unless she could see who I was. So, desperate for an idea, I agreed to a rendezvous at the most natural place for someone to meet his muse: the parking lot of a Target store.
I’ll never forget that day. It was a Saturday morning… or was it Sunday? Hm. Uh, let’s say Sunday. Anyhow, I arrived early and parked my car a good distance away from the store. I figured once my muse actually met me, she’d probably want to jump my bones. So when it came to parking spaces, the more secluded the better. Since I was a few minutes early, I just sat in my car and listened to some music. Those few minutes seemed to go on forever, not so much because of the anticipation, but because my muse was running late. It seems that while my muse is an excellent source for story ideas, she is not very punctual.
To be fair, there was a marathon being held that day and some of the streets were blocked. Unfortunately for my muse, I am not fair. When she finally showed up, I didn’t hesitate to give her a piece of my mind. Surprisingly, she enjoyed the piece I gave her and politely asked for another. Since she was so nice about it, I couldn’t say no. This was followed by another piece. And yet another. And another. Before too long, my muse had collected my entire brain in a Target shopping bag, which she proudly placed on her lap.
“Smivey,” she said. “Just how much do you want your brain back?”
I just sat there in my car and stared out the windscreen.
“C’mon, what are you willing to pay?”
Silence.
“Smivey! Do you even want your brain? How are you going to write?”
A bit of drool ran down my chin.
“Argh! You are so irritating! Just give me a number!”
Of course, anyone with half a brain would want their mind back. But, well, I didn’t even have a quarter of a brain. This one-way barter session went on for about thirty minutes before my muse picked up the Target bag and smacked me in the head with it. Amusingly, it made a rather pleasant tone, kind of like a xylophone. In fact, I bet if you were to line up a bunch of people with their brains removed and arranged them by cranium size, you’d end up with quite an impressive instrument. That being said, I cannot condone such activity, as it is illegal and immoral. Be sure to ask permission first.
Uh, where was I? Oh right, the brain thing. I was left in my car for days with my brain roasting in a shopping bag on the passenger’s seat. Fortunately, a Target employee finally discovered me when he was taking his robotic cart-gatherer out for an afternoon stroll. He carefully replaced my brain and removed from my wallet what he felt was a fair wage for such an operation. In other words, he took everything, even my library card. Funny thing is, I didn’t even know I had a library card until I started receiving warnings that the entire series of Erotic Adventures of Sleeping Beauty books was past due. For the record, I only have The Claiming of Sleeping Beauty and I never even made it through that one. Sorry, A. N. Roquelaure, but you’re no Anne Rice.
In any case, I have my brain back now and it’s slowly getting back into shape. You’re just going to have to bare with me. I mean, you can’t expect a man who didn’t have a brain for three days to be able to write flawless prose immediately. Come to think of it (because I can do that now), you wouldn’t expect him to be living at all. I’m a fucking walking miracle. So stop complaining about me not updating my blog and start calling your friends and telling them about the medical marvel that is I. . . that I am? In which I am? Hm.
Sorry. Like I said, it’s going to take a while to get this brain back into working condition. But I’m determined. I have a psychologist, a hypnotherapist and a life coach working with me every day. Thanks to them, I can now type over 30 words a minute and I’m capable of carrying on a relatively intelligent conversation with just about anyone. I should be grateful. But my success is somewhat bittersweet.
You see, I found out yesterday that my muse had no intention of leaving Gino for me. In fact, Gino was across the street the entire time recording everything on his Sony HD camcorder. She plans to show the video at her next muse meeting and let all the muses have a good laugh at my expense. Not only that, I hear she’s working on a book about her experience titled Beauty and Brains: Memoirs of a Muse. Oh well. Such is life. Farewell, muse. I wish you much happiness with Gino. Just keep in mind, he may be smarter, cooler, sexier and more talented than I am, but he’ll never be as. . .
I am so fucked.
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