joannebest











{March 9, 2015}   Sick ~ Me And My Muse And The Continuing Adventures Of ~

sickgirl8

“But I don’t have enough time to start it, never mind finish it!”
The whine in my voice has my cat looking at me like I’m a lunatic. Or a banshee.
A lunatic banshee.
My Muse, on the other hand, is totally not amused as evidenced by the look on her face.
“And I’m sick! Like, really sick!”
Of course she doesn’t say a word, which is worse than any words she could have thrown at me.
She arches an eyebrow, her red-stained mouth sterner than my fifth grade teacher’s ever was.
I recite a litany of all the reasons I haven’t been writing and they sound lame to even my ears.
She looks bored as I continue to babble.
After a good five minute diatribe justifying my legitimate reasons for not writing she pushes away from the wall she was leaning against and gets in my face.
“I. Don’t. Care.”
I open my mouth to answer her but she stops me with a slender finger to my parted lips.
“Shut it chica,” she knows I hate when she calls me that so I hear it a lot. “You said you were going to write, didn’t you?”
“I did but-”
“No buts,” she looks me over and smirks, like she knows something I don’t.
I’m sure she does.
“You can fuck around all you want missy, but not on my time!”
I know she’s pissed when she curses. I’m the one with the gutter mouth, not her.
She must be extremely pissed.
“Of all the wanna-be’s out there I wind up with you.”
She’s pacing now.
I blow my nose again.
“You’re making this whole Muse gig a drag chica. I’m a fucking Muse and you’re not doing a damn thing about it! I couldn’t get somebody with discipline, no, I have to get Little Miss Helps Alot, always serving somebody else’s master, in a manner of speaking,” she gives me a dirty look when I roll my eyes.
“Nothing is coming to you dipped in chocolate on a silver platter you know,” her voice was rising in volume.
My cat fled the room earlier. Lucky cat.
“I can’t do what I’m supposed to do if you won’t start doing what you’re supposed to do! You can’t fix everyone else’s life when you’re not paying attention to your own!”
Ouch.
She got me with that one. And I was also thinking about chocolate now.
“Enough!”
Frozen in place I know I’m in for something. She has a golden twinkle in her eyes I’ve never seen before but a lot has been going on under the surface, things I would have noticed if I paid more attention. Unfortunately for me, I always seem to find these things out too late. Again, my own fault.
“What did you promise Miss Ana?”
“I didn’t exactly promise, I said I was going to try-”
“Trying is for losers. You don’t “try”, you DO!”
“But I’ve never written anything like that before, what if I get it wrong? She’ll hate me and think I’m a lame loser.”
“How’s that’s any different from your normal bland self?”
She loves to throw my words back in my face. They don’t have to be exact, just in the same ballpark but damn, she hits a homerun every time.
“What part of ‘I have the flu’ don’t you understand?”
My scratchy voice sounds like there’s a clothespin on my nose and it disappears every other syllable or so. My voice, not my nose.
“You’re doing it again.”
Her voice vibrates through my fevered brain. She sounds psychedelic, like some old hippie movie from the ’60’s where pretty girls in see-thru dresses and long flowing hair danced barefoot in circles while contemplating the wonders of the universe during an acid trip.
“I’m sick,” my voice has that whining tone to it and it hurts even my ears.
“Don’t even try it missy.”
My Muse takes no bullshit from me, even when it’s not bullshit. I’ve been legitimately sick for way longer than I care to admit. I tend to hide my weaknesses and push on through whatever it is life throws at me best I can but I can’t fool my Muse.
She sees right through me. Which shouldn’t be that easy considering I’m in flannel pajamas shivering under a pile of thick comforters. I’m surrounded by tissues and bottles of Gatorade, both empty and full. I’m also hacking my lungs sore while my left nostril is racing my right nostril to see which side can run fastest. They’re pretty much tied.
“The only thing I’m ‘trying’ to do is stop being sick so I can get back to normal,” I snap.
She let out one of those deep throaty laughs that always manage to make me feel like I’m in for it.
‘It’ varies, depending on her mood.
“Normal, chica?” She stomps around the room, the click of her heels making me regret my love of hardwood floors. She has to know each time her foot hits the floor the sound vibrates through my head, amplified by 11. “You wouldn’t know normal if it bit you in your cute little ass.”
“There will be no biting of my ass!” I grumble through the pillow I’d yanked over my head.
“For now.” She grabs the pillow off my face and I struggle to get it back but she holds it just out of reach. The light hurts my eyes and I don’t want to see her dressed in my favorite red leather pants. Wasn’t she just wearing a nurse’s uniform? She makes my bedridden-self look ragged and pathetic with my greasy hair piled on top of my head in a stringy mess and my- “Hey! Those are my pants! Who said? Get those pants off!”
She gets that look on her face, one eyebrow arched, blue eyes sparkling and her red lip-sticked mouth pouty and wet.
“Now, sweetie? None of that right now. Aren’t you contagious?”
She reaches down, pressing her forehead to mine the way my Mother did when I was a little girl.
She clicks her tongue, plants her hands on her leather covered hips and releases a pitiful sigh.
“You’re no fun when you’re sick.”
I sneeze loudly. She doesn’t bless me.
She sinks onto the bed next to me looking almost concerned, but I know she’s disappointed in me. In an evil-muse sort of way.
I don’t get it. She’s my Muse with a capital M but she hasn’t been musing me lately. She’s been absent and I’ve been wordless.
“You’re sick chica, and I can’t believe I’m making excuses for you,” she huffs. “Once. Just this once I’ll give you a pass. But don’t get used to it!”
Six sneezes later I realize she’s gone again.
I need her.
Hate to say it but it’s true. I need my Muse and she’s not gonna be back until I start writing again on my own.
She may be my Muse, but neither one of us had to like it.
I sneezed a few more times and slowly fell asleep as it came to me that the only way I could beat her at her own game was to write before she came back, that would show her I don’t need her.
She was nothing but trouble plus she kept stealing my clothes.
I drift off to sleep to the sound of someone going through my walk in closet. I can still feel her hand on my face. Maybe she cares after-all.
~TO BE CONTINUED~
sickgirl

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