Whenever someone asks about my writing process,
I say it begins with the moon.
The moon has served as both my inspiration
and downfall. (I'm looking at you, tidal wave.)
It weasels its way into my central cortex (or we could say brain,
or conscious mind, or perhaps the proper term for
whatever it is I am attempting to describe) and successfully
manages to steal me from all of the things I am
supposed to be doing. And nyan cat.
There are some who will see the moon and think, "what
the flippity-fuck am I doing with my life?" They will then
light up and feel slightly better about their uncertainty. Oo, tingles.
Others, self-assured by their grasp of destiny's best jams,
will wonder how they can bring it to IPO in under 5 years. Or if
the martian target market really does prefer convenience to
price. On a scale of 1 to 5...
Others will consider the magnitude and decide instead
to hide under their covers. A blanket can't save you now, bitches!
Also, there is definitely extraterrestrial life because the person I
love is not of this earth. At least, that is what my
shrink/mother told me. I will send out a ship
straightaway to survey the landscape, pick up
an earth girl or two. Chicks dig rockets.
Perhaps there are others who sit beneath the
gigantic orb of what is surely the greatest cheese this
universe has seen and contemplate love. Is that guy I
text at 2:30am every-other-half Thursday also looking
at this thing? I wonder if he's into gruyere...
They, hopeless wanderers, walk directly into the
park benches guarded by the local homeless with their
heads tilted upward. Then, the sprinkler system turns on and
they suddenly realize they left their keys at home, along
with their wives and stash of real estate porn. They have managed to
once again sleep-walk themselves out of the
comfort of their homes to look at a hunk of cheddar.
I envy the comforts of the suburban life: the patch of grass,
the motion-detector alarm. The coolness of a breeze caught off rt 46...
Ah, things. I would accept them all if you were also there to
glare at the leaky faucet at 4am or laugh about the mouse we'd
name "Earl" who lives in the lower-left kitchen cabinet. Smart fellow,
he undid our traps and stole the cheese. We had to keep him.
I say it begins with the moon.
The moon has served as both my inspiration
and downfall. (I'm looking at you, tidal wave.)
It weasels its way into my central cortex (or we could say brain,
or conscious mind, or perhaps the proper term for
whatever it is I am attempting to describe) and successfully
manages to steal me from all of the things I am
supposed to be doing. And nyan cat.
There are some who will see the moon and think, "what
the flippity-fuck am I doing with my life?" They will then
light up and feel slightly better about their uncertainty. Oo, tingles.
Others, self-assured by their grasp of destiny's best jams,
will wonder how they can bring it to IPO in under 5 years. Or if
the martian target market really does prefer convenience to
price. On a scale of 1 to 5...
Others will consider the magnitude and decide instead
to hide under their covers. A blanket can't save you now, bitches!
Also, there is definitely extraterrestrial life because the person I
love is not of this earth. At least, that is what my
shrink/mother told me. I will send out a ship
straightaway to survey the landscape, pick up
an earth girl or two. Chicks dig rockets.
Perhaps there are others who sit beneath the
gigantic orb of what is surely the greatest cheese this
universe has seen and contemplate love. Is that guy I
text at 2:30am every-other-half Thursday also looking
at this thing? I wonder if he's into gruyere...
They, hopeless wanderers, walk directly into the
park benches guarded by the local homeless with their
heads tilted upward. Then, the sprinkler system turns on and
they suddenly realize they left their keys at home, along
with their wives and stash of real estate porn. They have managed to
once again sleep-walk themselves out of the
comfort of their homes to look at a hunk of cheddar.
I envy the comforts of the suburban life: the patch of grass,
the motion-detector alarm. The coolness of a breeze caught off rt 46...
Ah, things. I would accept them all if you were also there to
glare at the leaky faucet at 4am or laugh about the mouse we'd
name "Earl" who lives in the lower-left kitchen cabinet. Smart fellow,
he undid our traps and stole the cheese. We had to keep him.
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