Tag Archives: writer

Exploding head syndrome- KABOOM!:

Standard

exploding head

“Did I tell you to make it part of your very public blog?” she asked and I had to admit that it was due to my own stupidity that the world now knew that I had the dreaded M. I could hear my eggs shrivelling up and calling for help. I did not want any more children, so why on earth was I feeling sad about the approach of the dreaded M?
“It’s the loss of the possibility of having a child,” said the muse, once more in her intelligent Einstein phase. I was starting to feel warm and fuzzy towards her; she understood after all.
“Imagine two more of you running around and driving us all to drink?” she said, rolling her eyes.
“What is wrong with being a little eccentric?” I could feel the heat rising in my neck and settling in my cheeks. Due to the chaotic pole dancing of my hormones, anger came easily, bouts of crying was a close second. She of the bounteous bust took one look at me and bounded (the walls shook and bits of plaster cascaded form the ceiling) to the light switch. With a smirk she turned on the ceiling fan and whistled loudly. A white elephant appeared which duly flapped his large ears at her command. A cool breeze floated across my burning cheeks.
“Have you no sympathy woman?” I asked, “Just wait until you find yourself in this same aging boat.” By this time I was livid, the roots of my hair had turned red and smoke escaped the top of my head. If I was a cartoon character, you would have heard a loud, echoing whistle as I let off steam.
“Everyone, dive for cover!” she shouted. “Her head is about to explode- go to code red immediately! She is about to give new meaning to the phrase waking up with a bang!”
“Once again…NOT FUNNY!”
“Run for your lives!” This was the last thing I heard before a loud explosion filled the room.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Exploding_head_syndrome

Advertisements

Cotard’s syndrome or when I became a zombie:

Standard

Cotard

I slipped into the role quite comfortably. Some people are of the opinion (read the muse) that I am a drama queen, but I am merely capable of playing different roles superbly. Perhaps my imagination is just a tad overly dramatic and visually inclined, but what on earth is wrong with that?
“Hnnnhhhh….help me,” I groaned. I had my arms outstretched in front of me and my feet were dragging on the floor. I allowed my head to slump onto my shoulders and groaned convincingly. The Lexicon Dragon peered around the wall of her cave.
“What kind of language is hnnnhhh? It does not compute and I cannot find it in any of the dictionaries I have consulted.”
“Zzzzooommmbie ssssppeeeaaakkk,” I said, slurring the words.
“Are you quite allright?” she asked solicitously.
“Nooooo,” I answered, “I am decomposing and have the distinct urge to eat your brain, scooping it from your skull with a soup ladle.”
The Lexicon Dragon’s eyes went wide as she scurried back to her library, speed dialling the muse. The lady in question appeared within seconds, her hair covered in a zebra striped shower cap, her body wrapped in a voluminous bright orange towel. The ensemble almost turned me into a real zombie.
“Hhhnnnhhhh, a fatty brain,” I groaned as I lurched towards her. I fashioned my fingers into claws and grinned at her manically.
“Smell my decomposing flesh and quake in your boots, woman,” I added.
“As if,” she snorted. I felt quite disheartened at her blasé attitude towards my superb drama skills.
“Cotard’s Syndrome?” she asked and my bubble burst. She knew way too much, damn the woman. I kept forgetting that she could not be fooled- she was part of me after all.

http://health.howstuffworks.com/mental-health/mental-disorders/what-is-cotards-syndrome.htm

Z is for Zaftig or well rounded

Standard

Image

“You have done it, dear. I must say that I certainly had my doubts about you,” said my zaftige Muse, rescuer extraordinaire.
“It has been a wonderful journey, hasn’t it?” I said and knew that I would miss the hectic schedule. We were still in Rabab’s house, waiting for Rageddy Andy to lead us homewards through the dark tunnels of Almost Neverland. As there are no crows here, she was spreading bread crumbs as she went; a yeasty trail for us to follow. The Muse was still naked and I knew I would have to wash my eyes out with soap. I longed to see my shabby study and hug Sir Laughalot and lose myself in a few words of another novel.
And here we are full circle, the journey has come to an end- an A-Z adventure filled with the weird, the wonderful and the decidedly crazy. I do hope you enjoyed the blogs as much as I have. I loved putting laughter in everyone’s lives and a smile to pack in your suitcase.
I am overjoyed to say that a book about the zaftige Muse is in the offing. She has approved the cover and has dictated quite a few stories for your enjoyment, none of which have been seen on the blog. I do hope you help her out in her endeavours as they are always hillarious and slightly insane.
A heartfelt thanks to everyone who has followed me during April, I hope the journey was worth it.
Love and hugs- a scatterbrained author!

 

Y is for yaff (to bark like a snarling dog):

Standard

Image

The Muse, seeing that all the lion was good at was roaring, decided to take matters into her own hands and barked at Rabab.

“Yaff,yaff.”

The latter looked at her as if she should be committed, but I think we all know at this stage that the lady is insane. She was a figment of my imagination after all. Next she tried snarling at him.

“My dear lady, I knew you were a dog,” said Rabab and I had the distinct impression that they were to be his last words. With a jump that would put a ballerina to shame, the Muse soared through the air and landed rather heavily on Rabab. The poor fellow immediately deflated with a rather sad pffffftttt sound. The Muse unceremoniously rolled him up- he was but a paper weight after all (being written and conceived on paper) and stuffed him where the whip had come from. No, we do NOT want to know where that is.
“Right, that’s that,” she said and grinned at me. “Oh, I see the Kitty got your tongue. Is that what you have been up to you mangy lion? Stolen words never made anyone’s tummy full, you know. Just ask me,” she said and stroked her well rounded abdomen.
“Look at me, I am positively anorexic.”
“Pfffttt,” I said and she rounded on me with her teeth bared.
“What was that, dear?” she inquired.
“Uhmmm, nothing, nothing at all.” I was suddenly very afraid of her- she had a lion and heaven only knew when she would whip him out again.
“So, you were thinking of murdering the lot of us weren’t you, dear?”
“I can honestly say I wasn’t.” She looked at me and I had the distinct feeling that she did not believe me.
The history of let sleeping dogs lie.
http://idiomation.wordpress.com/2010/12/31/let-sleeping-dogs-lie/

X is for the Xanthippe (ill tempered woman) strikes again:

Standard

Image

“Why are you naked?” I spluttered.
“Xanthippe was an ancient Arthenian, dear and I presumed they would not have clothes. It is rather intimidating, don’t you think,” she said and twirled so that we all could see the intimidation from all sides.
The poor Avatar was desperately trying to avert his gaze and looked pleadingly at me. I knew he was as horrified as I was, yet I could not think of a way to get him home. I felt sorry for the blue chap.
Rabab, the cowardly fellow, seeing that the Muse was slightly distracted tried sneaking out of the back door.
“Oh no, you don’t,” said the Muse cracking a whip in his direction. I have no idea where she had secreted the whip on her naked body, but I dare say that I would not like to know anyway.
Rabab’s steps faltered as the Muse hissed at him.
“ Do I really need to do the lion’s share of the work?” she said angrily, prodding the lion with her elbow. “Why do you think I brought you along?” The lion merely looked at her disbelievingly. How dare she speak to the king of the animal realm in this disrespectful manner? He wondered whether she realised that he had teeth.
“Rabab, get you ass back here!” she yelled at the raconteur. “I am seeing red, do not make it go black. Have you no shame?” she lambasted him.
“Kill me, would you?” she sniffed. “I have had it with all the killing off of the darlings malarkey!”
“But, she can be a better writer under my tutelage,” Rabab ventured.
“Shut up. Get him Kitty!” The lion roared again and bits of plaster fell from the ceiling, Rabab was decidedly pale.
Physical effects of anger.
http://science.howstuffworks.com/life/inside-the-mind/emotions/anger2.htm

W is for Words:

Standard

Image

I was at a loss for words, how could Rabab be so cruel as to think I would harm the nutters in my head?
“Last time I looked I was very womanly indeed, man, I said and realised that Sir Laughalot was back on track. I silently cheered for my dream squad. I knew that either Raggedy Andy or the Muse was commanding the troops.
I was still trying to figure out what to do when the Muse strutted in. I could not believe my eyes! She was stark naked and was dragging a lion in by the tail. Said lion had a rather gloomy expression on his face; the Muse definitely had something to do with that. She jiggled as she strutted and on her face an expression was painted which read: I do not intend on taking prisoners alive.
Rabab had a smirk on his face as he turned to meet the bulk of her.
“To what do we owe the pleasure of your company?” he asked.
“No pleasure, only pain on your part,” the Muse said bluntly. She swung the lion around and the poor thing plopped to the ground between the two staring alpha personalities. She studied her nails intently.
“Oooh I smell like lion, rrrooooaaarr and don’t you dare say hello Kitty,” she smirked in my direction. I was too aghast to say much of anything; there were no words to describe what was happening and I wondered whether anyone would believe me if I told them.
The Muse poked the lion with a scarlet painted toe. “Do your thing, dear, chop chop.”
An overwhelming roar filled the tiny bungalow and Rabab retreated a step or two.
Note: no lions were harmed during the telling of the tall tail. (tale)
How to survive a lion attack…
http://www.wikihow.com/Survive-a-Lion-Attack

V is for Vaginate- sheathed or having a sheath:

Standard

Image

“I should wash your mouth out with soap for using such a rude word,” said the Muse and sniffed sadly at my lack of tact.
“It’s the only word that tickled my fancy,” I said giggling.
“How ruuuude, drop you fancy schmansy puns right now, dear! I don’t have the time to teach you manners, I have my hands full as it is,” she huffed.
“To vaginate means to sheath or have a sheath, as in Sir Arthur vaginated his sword or he had the means to vaginate his sword,” I said falling all over myself in a helpless fit of laughter. I had to admit that it was both inappropriate and funny as hell.
“In Botany you may encounter a vaginate leaf- a sheathed leaf, see?” I asked, but all the Muse did was to scrunch up her nose as if I was a foul smelling tramp.
“I think I should have a word with the Lexicon Dragon regarding the words she exposes you too, dear.”
“What? And bind the imagination of the writer?” I asked aghast.
“No, dear, just channel it wisely,” she answered.
“More than likely smother it! I am a visual being; I cannot help it if I have an imagination. It’s better than writing boring, unimaginative tomes whose only usage would be as a defensive mechanism in a robbery (a tome thrown at the head=concussion) as nobody would open them to read the pages,” I said.
“Vaginate your anger, dear, really I am only interested in finding appropriate ways of keeping your mind occupied,” she spluttered.
“Words are appropriate, they rule my existence and when I cannot find them, I am as stuck as a kitten in a tree and believe me, no sexy firemen would take a second look at me,” I argued the point.
The power of words.
http://www.askingsmarterquestions.com/words-have-the-power-to-change-our-lives/

U is for unilluminated or unnecessary interlude:

Standard

Image

The above is after seeing yourself in the mirror for the first time after your hair has been coloured black.

 

Have you ever combed your hair and had a good look at how many grey hairs have suddenly appeared?
“Don’t pull them out, dear, you already have a bald patch worthy of a comb-over after the last few grey hairs you unceremoniously plucked from existence. You do not, I repeat DO NOT want to look like Donald Trump,” said the Muse looking over my shoulder as I parted my hair and showed her the recalcitrant hairs.
If looks could kill mine would have melted her on the spot and only a fizzling vapour cloud would remain. I refused to answer and instead scratched around in my bathroom cupboard for a box of hair dye. These products are always helpful in showing you the colour your hair is likely to turn out; it even has pictures for goodness sake. How can you go wrong then? Apparently very, very wrong.
On the product is says chocolate brown and shows how my mousy hair will be magicked into a sleek dark brown hair-do. I have frizzy, curly hair and knew the sleek image was a lie, unless you tortured them with a straightener. Thus I worked the dye in evenly and waited the prerequisite 30 minutes only to emerge from the shower with unilluminated hair- black that is, beyond a shadow of a doubt. Now my face looks harsh and resembles a witch’s; all I need is a broomstick, a large hat, a batty familiar and a warty nose and I would be set. There was no chocolate brown in any of the strands I desperately searched through in bright sunlight. I hate it, but then all the grey was washed away as promised, so there is that at least!
40 Funniest Hair and Beauty Memes.
http://photos.essence.com/galleries/40-funniest-hair-and-beauty-memes?slide=321451#321271_321491

T is for tales and their origin:

Standard

Image

“I am the originator of every novel idea you have ever had. I am the telling of the tale, the words you wished you had,” he said with an evil grin. “I suggest you kill off your darlings.”
“What?” I asked as his words spun off in different directions and ricocheted in my brain.
“Murder the annoying Muse, poison the incompetent hamster, shoot the bloody cowboy and sack the Lexicon Dragon and the limp Raggedy Andy!” he shouted.
“Gmf, wuh?”
“Their tales are superfluous mumbo jumbo. You need only me to fill your mind with the most exquisite words imaginable. Name a genre and I have the tale to match it,” he said making broad, expansive gestures with his hairy arms, “and you will never channel the idiotic Neanderthal ever again.”
I barely understood half of what he was saying and the poor Avatar looked like an orphan who was a long way from home. Then it dawned on me to kill your darlings meant to kill the best (well according to you that is) characters you have because they do not fit the plot. No way was I capable of killing my favourite people and all this to be the master of the written tale? My life would be empty without the Muse, Sir Laughalot, the Lexicon Dragon Raggedy Andy and Alice, the gunslinger.
“Chop chop time is of the essence man,” said Rabab and stared at me with narrowed eyes. If he was so eager to kill the rest of my cast, how long would I last against the menace that poured off him in waves? Would I give up everything for the sake of the winning tale?
Fairy tales have an ancient origin, read more here.
http://www.telegraph.co.uk/science/science-news/6142964/Fairy-tales-have-ancient-origin.html

S is for stories and salivating:

Standard

Image

“If you had met me in the q-post I would have been Quintin Quacksalver and you would have feasted on quarander, quark and quadrimium, but here we are,” he said, smiling like a Cheshire cat.
“Instead, we shall have sacchariferous pastries and sanatory bread. Follow me.”
“Huh?” I said channelling my inner Neanderthal.
“My apologies, I forgot that your tedious little hamster is not running. Moving on in plain language then; I am the teller of tales, stories if you prefer. Tall ones, short ones as well as novel length ones. Pay attention when I speak as it is in your best interest to do so,” he said and placed large star shaped spectacles over his cat eyes. We walked down an overgrown path. The flowers and insects were much larger than in the normal world. Within ten minutes we arrived at a smart little bungalow hidden under gigantic willow trees. Rabab beckoned us in and we sat down on comfortable, floral overstuffed armchairs. With a flourish he produced a tray of the sweetest chamomile tea, buttered bread and pastries. He noticed that my saliva was dripping down my chin and making a beeline for the floor and offered me a linen napkin, a silver fork and a porcelain plate.
“I would say bon appétit, but you wouldn’t understand, I fear. Dig in will have to suffice,” said Rabab Raconteur haughtily. The Avatar merely stared at us perplexedly. He was in a bluish mood. I stuffed my face and a few kilograms into my thighs for good measure. I sat back in the armchair and looked at Rabab expectantly.
Look up the s and q-words here.
http://phrontistery.info/s.html
http://phrontistery.info/q.html

Image