‘Stop it! Your mind is a dangerous place to be,” the muse tutted. “I should know, I live there every day. It’s no wonder people think you are crazy. Give you a sentence and you go tearing off like the bloody white rabbit and fall down the rabbit hole,” she muttered.
“Still no sneakers? I said, hurry up!” I could hear her not so subtle thoughts. Babysitting an author is the worst job I have ever had and no union to complain to and this one’s a real doozy all right.
How was I supposed to understand the fact that she said she was living entirely in my head and then she goes and talks about it being her job? I suppose it wasn’t rocket science, rather something to do with time bending and the universe standing on its head. I pulled my sneakers from the cupboard; they had been hiding in the darkest spot they could find. My idea of exercise is running around the block and kicking the darn thing under the bed. My sneakers weren’t worn from the hours spent on the dreaded tread mill (that reminds me I need to reimburse the gym for the treadmill the muse broke) but rather by two generations of pug puppies using them as chew toys. Their laces flopped sadly and their tongues wagged disconsolately, they weren’t up for the challenge either.
I slipped them on, tied the laces which by the way gets more difficult as the weight around the waist increases. Dieting sucks at the best of times! I can always hear the elf that lives in the scale, grumble loudly: Fat, fat, fat! If there’s more of that, she’ll break my back.
“Vanessa, really! You have started a whole different story again, please focus!” I knew that I exasperated her. In my defence I really tried not to, but my mind refused to adhere to normalcy. Perhaps there should be a union for muses like mine and it wouldn’t be a half bad idea if they were to get therapy on the side, either.
I saw a group therapy session in my mind’s eye. The psychiatrist sat in the middle of the group of women and said:
“Repeat after me, my writer is a total loon and I am a normal, flamboyant muse.” You see, I think we scramble their brain cells. At the end of a month they are not sure who they are as we have changed their character and physical attributes day after day. The lot of them are schizophrenic and should be on medication.
“Yes, I know, there I go again. I’m coming,” I said as I walked briskly down the hallway, fearing that she just might appear in the guise of a Jabberwocky or slathering dragon.
We got into my blue Hyundai Getz and away we sped to what was certain to be the death of me. She sat next to me in a purple muumuu, her hair held in place by jewelled bobby pins. The seat was pushed back as far as it could go and still her stomach touched the dashboard. I can honestly say that I have never seen her get into the car; I can only imagine that she magically shrinks her body to fit. We drove in silence; I could see by the set of her jaw that I needed to be the quiet, introverted writer for once. I kept my eyes glued to the road, trying to dispel the sudden fear that made my stomach feel as if it was doing flip flops….backwards. We parked in the designated area.
Check out some weird shoes here- it makes my sneakers seem normal:http://www.urlesque.com/2010/06/17/28-pairs-of-weird-shoes/
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