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The Muse is a Dominatrix

Dominatrix
Photo courtesy Caveman 92223

Sometimes, I think the Muse is into chastity play and orgasm denial, seeing as how she loves to tease you with ideas.  She’ll drop one in your head, just long enough for you to get a whiff of its sweet scent, then yank it back out of reach.  You struggle to remember the idea, but the Muse is relentless.  You remember where you were when it came, who you were with, what you were talking about, the weather, everything the idea was related to, the hottie sitting next to you that you were trying not to stare at, but for the life of you, you can’t remember what the goddamn idea was!

You try everything to get it back.  You retrace your steps, sequence of thought, hoping to trigger the same neuronal firing pattern.  You might try meditating.  Or perhaps writing down everything “around” the idea and stare at the paper hoping to make a connection.  Or maybe try clamping clothes pins to your genitals.  Hey, we all have our different ways.

Then you get a glimpse of something that might be the idea, but it just doesn’t give that same “eureka” feeling.  It just isn’t as great as the idea that you don’t have.  Then you doubt yourself, and think, maybe this was the idea, and it’s just not as great as I thought it was.

You start to get scared that you might lose the idea forever.  What if it was the one in a chain of ideas that would lead to a theory of everything, or the end of famine, or somehow get the line you choose at the supermarket to not be the motherfucking slowest one.  You plead with the Muse, but the more you do, the more she teases you.

Exasperated, you decide to sleep on it, and just so you don’t forget, you decide to write yourself a note, à la Memento.  In the morning, you find it:

“Don’t forget about that awesome idea that you can’t remember.”

Harold and Kumar - What Would NPH DoGreat, thanks a lot, asshole.  You’re tormented for months on end.  You don’t eat, you don’t sleep, and you neglect the cat, who has to fend for himself by eating the flies around the pile of dirty dishes.  You see a psychiatrist and hope the pills she gives you will make you see unicorns – ’cause if you’re seeing unicorns, who gives a fuck about ideas.

You disappear from society longer than you usually do, and a concerned friend leaves a message on your answering machine:  “Dude, are you dead?”.  Yes I’m fucking dead.  I’m gonna come back as a ghoul, sing Spice Girl songs to you until your eardrums rupture, then ask you, “Are you deaf?”.

Then it happens.  While you’re eating toast and watching squirrels hump on YouTube one day, the Muse unlocks the belt and you have a mindgasm with the force of a million porn stars.

With both hands, you pull open the lapels of your notebook to reveal her pale, smooth breasts.  Firmly grasping your tool, you unleash a torrent of ink.  You paint the words in bold strokes, ignoring lines, and caring less about legibility.  You keep coming and it doesn’t feel like you will ever stop.  The ink keeps flowing onto her until finally she’s completely covered with the juice of your passion.  When you finally collapse, utterly exhausted, your mind is at peace, and all is well.  Thank you, Mistress.

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