Tuesday, February 10, 2004

Never was there a more apropos time for the singular “gentle reader,” gentle reader, than now. I have it on good authority that I am the only remaining person who reads this stupid thing, which is fine by me. I always did enjoy seeing my inside voice slathered over an olive green backdrop.

I found my Muse recently. I woke up one morning, stumbled down a dozen flight of stairs, and found her pacing in an alley, staring at me with bloodshot eyes while shooting happy juice up her forearm. It wasn’t a pretty sight, but I found her, that’s the important thing. You see, I’ve felt a grand sense of ennui descend like a pall on my little lemonade stand lately, and that simply won’t do. And I know I’m not alone when I say this.

So my Muse turned to me and shook her head angrily.

“You twit!” she said, unwinding her tourniquet and slapping me about the head with it. “Can’t you give me some attention? Just a little? It wouldn’t kill you to invoke me once in a while. Shit, that’s why Verizon gives you all those free minutes.”

And she’s as right as a Quaker in a subversive poetry reading, mark my words. Well, I’m glad we had this little conversion, self. Do you concur? I know I concur.