Inspiration is a flaky hag.
She’s never around when you need her – when you’re depressed and sick and pimply and uglier than the yellow fungus that smokers get on their tongues.
And she never frequents the same place twice. Say you caught her once in the pages of your favorite book – you needn’t bother looking there the next time the batteries go dead in your Thinking Cap, because she’ll have found somewhere else to sip her tea or scratch her butt or whatever she does for a jolly.
Inspiration is a nasty, vicious, snaggle-toothed tyrant, and I hate her.
I’m sad that people are clueless -- that people fighting for the 99 percent refuse to comb their hair or talk like the 98 percent who aren’t drinking BONG water.
It must be depression or post-PMS.
I just can’t seem to care enough about anything to write myself happy, and it sucks. I’m also pimply and looking very much like the aforementioned yellow fungus.
What to do?
Don’t drag a 2-year-old and a 6-year-old to the art museum, unless you enjoy screaming “stop,” “no” and “I swear to God …” Don’t eat chocolate-cream-filled Twinkies; because they aren't very good, and they’ll give you heart burn. Don’t watch the news.
Find a good book -- then tell me about it, because every piece of literature I've opened in the last 100 days has failed my minimum expectations.
And someone please tell the Occupiers to comb their flippin' hair -- look like you give a shit, people.