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.

It was a dark and stormy night. A young boy stood at his bedroom window, his ear pressed against the cold, smooth glass. He liked to listen to the spattering sound the rain made. But mostly, he liked to look at the mark his ear left on the glass after he pulled away. He’d run his index finger around the edges of the mark, and as he’d do this, his mind would begin to wander, wander to a place far away, where green valleys seemed to go on forever and sheep gently grazed. This place was called Hollister, and actually, it was only about thirty minutes away. Why this boy thought of such a boring place is beyond anyone’s knowledge. Perhaps he was just a fucking idiot, an idiot named Earnest.

At school, Earnest wasn’t very popular. The kids would always tease him and call him “Ear.” This was because while other children were out doing fun things during recess, such as playing kickball or selling drugs to the teachers, Earnest would spend his entire break with his ear pressed up against the classroom window—even if it wasn’t raining. Seriously. This was one weird-ass kid.

When the children weren’t occupying their time kicking balls or selling smack, they would often torment young Earnest. They’d bang on the glass, yell, even pull his hair, but Earnest never budged. After a while, the kids got bored and just chose to ignore the child, which suited Earnest just fine. And that’s pretty much how it went. Until one day, when a new student arrived.

Her name was Maybee and she was from “the lend dan unda.” She was a somewhat attractive girl, with a freckly face and long, blond hair. But since she spoke with a funny accent and used weird words and phrases like “mate” and “cool beans,” the children at school weren’t very nice to her. They often called her names, like “Crocodile Maybee,” which made no sense, since they were all too young to even know who Paul Hogan was. Still, it was a pretty funny name and even the teachers would snicker a bit when they heard the kids use it.

As you might imagine, Maybee (pronounced just the way it looks, but for some reason, she pronounced it “MYbee”) did her best to fit in with the other kids. At lunch, she tried to share her Dunkeroos with her classmates, but none of the children were interested in dipping cookies into frosting. One of the kids did accept a bite of her Violet Crumble candy bar, however, but soon regretted it. Honeycomb and chocolate? Bleh.

Eventually, Maybee gave up trying to befriend any of the cool kids and turned her attention to Earnest. Oh yes, she was well aware of Earnest. After all, it was kind of hard to ignore a child standing with his ear pressed against the window. She became fascinated with the young boy. What was he listening to? Why wouldn’t he talk to the other children? Maybee was determined to find out the answers to these questions, as well as “Why is the sky blue?” That one always perplexed her. She started by just trying to strike up a conversation:

“G’day, mite.” Maybee said.

Earnest did not reply.

“Why do ya ‘ave ya ear prissed up’n the gless?” Maybee asked.

Again, there was no reply.

“Ya wanna bite of me Dunkeroos?”

Earnest just continued to stare off into space, his ear pressed up on the gless, I mean glass. And Maybee, she just stood there next to him and watched. Eventually, the other kids started to notice this attempt at interaction and they began to gather around the two weirdos. Maybee wasn’t sure what to do. The kids began to sing a song about Earnest and Maybee sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G. Why it was more humiliating to be in a tree while kissing wasn’t clear. Perhaps it implied that they had the brains of birds. Anyhow, the singing seemed to get louder and louder. Maybee looked at Earnest and suddenly she knew what to do. She turned to face him and pressed her ear against the glass. For a while, she just stood there and chewed on her Dunkeroos. But then she stopped and smiled. And that’s when it happened. Their eyes met and for the first time that day, Earnest smiled, too. Not a huge smile, mind you, but it was there. His eyes crinkled ever so slightly and his lips turned up at the corners. And then Maybee spat her Dunkeroos in his face and punched him in the stomach. The children cheered, high five-ing Maybee. Earnest couldn’t believe what just happened. He lied there on the floor, doubled over in pain, and watched as Maybee walked off with her new-found friends who suddenly really liked Dunkeroos. Earnest closed his eyes to escape.

Later that night, a terrible storm hit the town. The rain came down in endless sheets. As Earnest stood at his bedroom window with his ear pressed against the cold, smooth glass, a tear trickled down his cheek. But this was not a tear of sorrow. It was a tear of joy. For outside of Earnest’s window were all his classmates, hogtied and crying, getting drenched by the endless downpour. The bedroom door opened and Maybee entered, all bundled up in a yellow rain slicker dripping with water. She pulled back her hood and leaned against the glass, running her finger gently down the bridge of Earnest’s nose. Earnest smiled.

“Thank you,” Earnest said.

“My pleazya” Maybee replied.

Earnest moved his head away from the glass and together he and Maybee traced the edges of his ear mark. And as they did this, they held hands and watched the children outside crying, crying and shivering, during that dark and stormy night.

I hate how some people lie about what they do for a living. My job isn’t that impressive, but I have no problem telling others about it. I’m the head cashier at a Thrifty Drugstore.

“But, Smivey,” you say, “Thrifty doesn’t exist anymore.” Yeah, that’s what they want you to believe. But the truth is, there’s still one in Arizona, hundreds of feet below the Earth’s surface. It’s all part of a giant underground city designed to protect one person. Yeah, that’s right. I work at the President’s Thrifty.

“But why does the President need a drugstore?”

Jeeze, imaginary reader, you are so fucking inquisitive today. I’l tell you why. What if he cuts his finger? Where the hell is he gonna get a bandage? He’d bleed to death, and then where would we be? Uh huh. And what if he gets a craving for some honey-roasted almonds? That would be bothering him all day and he wouldn’t be able to concentrate on saving the world and shit. More importantly, what if he wanted a cylindrical scoop of Thrifty chocolate chip ice cream? There’s nowhere else in the world that he could possibly get that. OK, except for Rite-Aid. Those motherfuckers. But where do you think Rite-Aid gets their Thrifty ice cream?

Yeah, that’s right. We make the Thrifty ice cream down here. Otherwise, it would be pretty boring. Occasionally, a diplomat will stop by for an Abazaba or a Coke. But otherwise, we just hang out here, making ice cream and taking turns singing over the PA system. Oh, and we also process the President’s film. Man, you would not believe the kind of shit that guy and the First Lady are into. Creepy.

One time, we selected a particularly raunchy photo of Dubbya and Laura and created this enourmous banner to surprise the Commander In Chief when he arrived. Of course, we never thought that he might show up with his mom and dad. Boy, that was an awkward moment. It took us over an hour to find the ladder and pull the banner down. Barbara Bush immediately covered her eyes, while the former President couldn’t help but stare at the image. I was pretty busy yelling at people, but I swear I saw Bush Senior give his son a thumbs-up for a job well done. We all almost got fired over that. But then I offered everyone free triple scoops. By the time everyone had devoured their ice cream, all was forgiven.

But, yeah, that’s the way it is down here at the President’s Thrifty. So why do I bother staying? Well, it’s kind of a top-secret place, ya know? I mean, people have quit their jobs here. But after that, we never hear from them again. I’m not saying that they got killed by the CIA or anything like that, but I wouldn’t put it past them. Anyhow, it just kind of makes me think twice about looking for a new place of employment. Besides, we’re all looking forward to the next roll of film Bush Jr. sends over here for processing. I just hope nobody tells him about the advantages of digital photography. That would really suck. Which reminds me of the next photo we’re making a banner out of. Wow, Laura Bush. Who woulda thought.

One upon a time, atop a giant hill, there sat an enourmous castle. And in this castle, lived the most hideously ugly princess in all the land. I mean, seriously, this chick was hard to look at. All her sevants had to be nearsighted or legally blind. Otherwise, they’d end up involunatarily coughing up their lunch the moment they caught a glimpse of her.

Of course, nobody was going to tell the princess that she looked like the wrong end of a Shar-Pei. Instead, they would lower their eyes—not out of respect, but out of fear—and comment on how ravishing the princess looked.

“Princess Farta,” they’d say, “you looks so ravishing.”

And Princess Farta would smile, exposing her one purple tooth and her brown gums.

Urp. Sorry, I just threw up a little. Where was I? Oh, right, Farta.

So, yeah, people would lie whenever they they “saw” the princess. And when an unfortunate outsider happened to look straight at the princess and spewed forth the entire contents of his or her stomach, it would always be blamed on a 24-hour bug that was going around. In any case, pretty much everyone lied. Well, everyone but the magic mirror.

The princess would walk up to the magic mirrror and say, “Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who is the prettiest girl in the world?” (she couldn’t rhyme worth a shit.)

“Oh, well, isn’t it obvious?” the mirrror would reply. “I mean, yeah, you’re so beautiful. Maybe you should model or something.”

“Really?” the princess would ask.

“Oh, sure, yeah, like you could totallllyyyy be a model.”

“Wow. I never thought of myself as the model type.”

“Yeah, well, I wonder why that is.”

“I don’t know.”

“Honey, take a look in the mirror.”

And princess Farta would look into the mirror and she would smile at what she saw, exposing her purp—

Oh boy. I don’t know if I can finish this story. I mean, it was going to be pretty funny, since it had this kind of clever ending where the magic mirror tells the truth, but it’s always being sarcastic. But Princess Farta is too stupid to realize the change in tone of the mirror’s voice. Anyhow, every time I start writing about Farta’s smile, I get a little queasy. Well, a lot queasy. I need to get my mind off of that mouth. Hm.

Maybe if I think of puppy dogs and fluffy bunnies frolicking in the meadow. Awww so cute. Look at them wrestling with each other. The puppies really like the bunnies. So adorable. Wait a minute. They’re not playing! Hey, puppies! No! Stop! Oh the humanity! UGH! What a masacre. You’d think the bunnies would be able to fend for themselves. That’s just wrong. I blame myself for putting the bunnies in the same meadow as the puppies. That was stupid. Well, at least I’m not thinking of that mouth anym— ACK!

Fuck this. I give up. I’m calling my shrink.

First of all, I want to make something clear. I don’t believe that someone should use their blog to plug products or services. That said, sometimes you just have to break the rules. Especially when it’s for something you really believe in.

About a week ago, my left thumb started to hurt. Every hour or so, the pain would transfer to my right thumb. This went on throughout the day until the pain became so unbearable, I had to see someone about it.

So I went to my doctor and described what I had been experiencing. He took some x-rays, around a gallon of blood and then ran through the test results with me. It turns out, I have a rare affliction called vinger pijn. But I was told not worry. There’s a drug available for it and it should clear up in a matter of days.

Well, I’m happy to report that my doctor was right. This is the most amazing drug ever. Not only has my thumb pain gone away completely, my skin looks younger and my eyesight seems to have improved. All with one amazing drug called Placebo.

I simply take one tablet in the morning and another before bedtime. It doesn’t upset my stomach and I can feel it working almost immediately. Oh, and you know how most drugs have all those warnings on their labels? This one doesn’t say shit. I can drive, operate heavy machinery, even juggle knives. It doesn’t matter when you’re taking Placebo.

In fact, one time, I couldn’t find anything to take my tablet with, so I just put the pill in my mouth and swallowed it down. It almost tasted like candy! Seriously. I wish I hadn’t done that though, because now I want to pour the entire bottle in my mouth, which could be very dangerous.

Hang on a sec. I just noticed something. The label says, “Take one tablet at breakfast and one before bed, or as needed.” Sweet. Now I know what it’s like to be a drug addict. Thank you, Placebo!

Baby, I know our relationship couldn’t be better right now, but it’s not like I haven’t been trying. A little less communication would help. I mean, when I write to you, you don’t have to write back straight away. I can wait a few hours. Or even days. Hell, you don’t have to write back at all. Work with me here. I’m doing all I can to make things worse.

I was thinking, maybe you could hang up on me the next time I call you. No warning. Just slam down the receiver and don’t pick it up again. Do people still slam down the receiver? I guess you just push a button now. Anyhow, you know what I mean. That might make me wonder where we stand. Anything would be better than this constant state of fucking joy. Fuck that.

Also, the warm hugs are kind of messing with my mind. It’s like you like me or something. Yeah, right. If possible, could you maybe give me the cold shoulder the next time we see each other? It would make me feel like shit, and you know how much I love feeling like shit.

Look, all I’m trying to say is, things are great, but they don’t have to be. Maybe if you played some mind games with me every once in a while, or had an affair with my best friend, we wouldn’t be where we are today: on a one-way trip to Happy Land. Bleh.

Anyhow, I’m not expecting you to do everything I’ve suggested. Just take my thoughts into consideration. Or don’t. That would really piss me off.

Sincerely,

Smivey

He pressed the gun barrel against my head and pulled the trigger. There was no hesitation, no long-winded speech. One minute I was alive and pleading for my life. The next minute, I had no life to plead for.

Don’t shed a tear for me. There is no reason to mourn. I am not a ghost, nor am I the undead. You see, I never existed. I was never walking the earth. I was just a weak thought in his head, an insignificant character that had little purpose. I added to the suspense. I was page 31 in a collection of over 200.

On page 30, I was in a department store, asking to see a tie. On page 31, I was lying face down on the floor in a pool of my own tears and sweat, shaking and praying to a god I did not know. I served my purpose and now I am no more. By page 43, you will have forgotten about me. You won’t even remember my name. Because I never had one. That’s how insignificant I was. My eyes were colourless. My nationality, vague. I had no quirky speech patterns or colourful language. In fact, during my life, I only spoke one word: please. Which was quickly interrupted with a loud popping sound.

That’s how he described it: “a loud popping sound.” Not only was I an insignificant character, I was part of an insignificant book, written by an insignificant writer. Come to think of it, perhaps he did me a favour.

Dear Student:

Thank you for enrolling in my class. Unfortunately, due to lack of interest, I have been forced to cancel it. Apparently, a lot of people thought that the course listing was nothing more than a prank. I suppose I can understand this. But I was really looking forward to sharing with you all of my knowledge and expertise.

OK, I’ll admit it, Underwater Basket Weaving is an amusing idea. But when you think about it—I mean really think about it—you realize just how fascinating a concept it really is.

Contrary to popular belief, we do not sit on the ocean floor with scuba gear on. That’s just foolish. The weaving is done in small, specially designed tanks. The weaver remains dry, for the most part, except for his or her hands. The challenge is doing the actual weaving with your hands submerged in water. You see, the straw floats, so you have to keep a really good grip on your project. Once you have a decent amount done, you can use a weight to keep your project submerged. Why not just let your basket float up to the top? Well, then that would be called Floating Basket Weaving or something like that, wouldn’t it? And, really, where’s the challenge in that?

But it really makes no difference. The class will never be and the art of underwater basket weaving will slowly die away. I was hoping I could pass along the secrets and continue the tradition. But, alas, it seems that dream will never come true.

Thank you again for your interest in Underwater Basket Weaving. If you are truly serious about learning the craft, I am available for private lessons. Or if you’d like to give it a go on your own, let me know. I have 15 of these fucking customized weaving tanks in my garage right now and nobody on Craigslist wants anything to do with them.

Happy weaving to you.

Michael Gorgonzola

He was a man and she was a woman. Good start. They were also heterosexual. Again, that was working in their favor. He looked pretty good for his age and she was incredibly hot. It was just a matter of time before they would find each other. Unfortunately, that matter of time turned out to be 25 years. By then, he was on dialysis and she was suffering from dementia. Also, their looks weren’t quite what they used to be. In fact, they looked pretty disgusting. Ugly, even. And they smelled bad, like old people smell. Fortunately, his sense of smell was one of the first things to go, and her nose was still taped up from when she got into a fight with herself. Their eyes met. Thanks to extremely poor vision, he saw a woman of 25. And she, thanks to her dementia, saw a young man with a snake growing out of his forehead. He thought she was beautiful. She thought he was disgusting, but she immediately fell in love with his snake (it flicked out its tongue so seductively). Suddenly, she ran towards him. He stretched out his arms and their torsos met. Bones cracked. Bodily fluids leaked out onto the hospital floor. He opened his mouth to accept her lips and she tackled him to the ground and tongued his forehead until the orderlies sedated her. Neither the man nor the woman would remember this encounter. But the snake would never be the same.

Happy Valentine’s Day.

This holiday sucks.

Hey, thanks. I appreciate the thought, but it seems like you’ve made a horrible mistake. You see, it’s not my birthday. No, really. If anyone would know, it would be me. And what’s with all of these Over The Hill jokes? Aren’t those for people over 40? C’mon, give me some credit. Do I look like I’m over 40? Well, that’s my point. So do me a favor and take all of these fucking cards and balloons away. I don’t want to see them right now. Huh? What’s that? Well, technically, yes. It’s Thursday, but… Well, yes, I suppose I might be turning 40, but… OK, fine, fuck it. Just give me the damn balloons. Bleh. I might as well start looking at retirement homes in Florida.