Also, my muses is being a bitch. I've firmly decided to embrace pretentiousness and call it a muse, and dammit, it is vacationing somewhere that's not here, or it's really addicted to something that so far, my nerves won't let me write. I didn't realize I still had inhibitions. Go figure.
And it just seems wrong to torture Lex and Clark, or Brian and Justin, just because I'm in a bad mood. I mean, not that I'm going to stop or anything, but you know, guilt. Bad mood. No Beth. Unhealthy combinations, that.
So, muselessness. Which is kind of boring, and I've decided that it may never come back and held the funeral. My future shall be one of lace collars and I shall become a tax investment specialist who hides in her not-corner office and stares at a computer screen all day. I mean, a lot like now, but with more numbers and less smut and possibly take up drinking bourbon. People seem to drink it a lot on TV. And the most exciting part of my day will be reconciling figures of some kind.
Of course, three years in, when my spirit is dead, I'll see the number sixty-nine and it'll bring back memories I've been repressing, and I'll be freaked out and in denial about my fanficslutting ways. Because sixty-nine means nothing to me, nothing, and I'll tell everyone at the office that, though no one asks and a few offer to drive me home. Strange people.
I'll recover by the next day, though, and then notice the fact that my trays are called 'outgoing' and 'incoming', which is just wrong, and I immediately tears those off and ask the secretary how such filth could be allowed on my desk.
This time, the offer to be driven home is a little more forceful.
I'll have uncontrollable, vague dreams about a variety of pretty boys and comment to a colleague that there's homoerotic subtext between the CEO of our company and his biggest rival over the watercooler. He acts shocked. Strange guy.
While trying to fix my spreadsheets, someone says the word 'citrus' and I think they said 'seperis' and have flashbacks. I drive myself home.
Then, one day, jsut when I can safely look at numbers and not see sexual position abbreviations and I don't have to bite my tongue to keep from asking my CEO where all this virulent hostility toward Rival is really coming from, my bitch of a muse comes *back* and settles down and asks "what the *hell* have you been doing while I was gone? Let's porn."
Hmm. Maybe I'll hold off on the funeral. I don't like lace collars. They make my neck itch.
This entry was brought to you by the fact I *do* have a story to write and it won't. Freaking. Stop. So I can see it.