2011.01.13 Free Write

There's an angry canine lurking in the corner of my grin. It wants to bite. Hanging out used to be so easy, and now the little bit that can be managed is forced and unwilling like an actor playing a part they've discovered they would probably strangle if they met it in a deserted alley.

My muse sometimes sends me postcards from imaginative corners of my fantasies, but never with a return address, and always scrawled with "you miss me more than I miss you".

The people I most want to talk to about stuff going on in my life right now are dead. Which, I suppose, means that I should try to harness this power for military purpose.

"Sir! The enemy has sent a tall bald geeky person to frown people to death."

"Kill him!"

"We tried! Everybody who lifts a weapon at him gets frowned at, and they clutch their chest screaming something about alligators and lupus."

"Curses! How do we stop him?!"

"Well, we've noticed that the accounting staff seem to wander by him completely unaffected..."

Everybody is training to be something. Whatever it is that you do - everything that you do - that is what you are getting better at doing. Which means that I am becoming a lean, mean, problem-finding and dreaming-of-solutions-I-can't-accomplish machine. The poor zeppelins never had a chance. I still think that replacing all of the mechatronics staff with lemurs would work, though.

Middle age is officially underway when you realize that you need to re-define things that were fundamentally true about yourself. Mid-life crises are simply when people faceplant into this realization, and stumble away from it in a stupid direction.

Every year I invent a new excuse about why I'm not drawing anything. Soon I'm going to have to amputate an arm or something, because it's getting silly.

The evil pixies camping between my ears tell me that I'm done here now. And we don't want to anger the evil pixies, now do we.