Minding the Muse...

Ah, Monday. Day of new beginnings, of a return to the relative peace, rhythm and sanity of work. A day when I get up early to go to the office, while my muse sleeps off another wild weekend.

Really - what is her problem? She's been particularly difficult to live with lately. Staying out all hours of the night. Drinking whiskey like there's no tomorrow. Hitting on all the cute guys and leaving her lipstick smeared on their shirt collars. I'm beginning to think she's a regular tart.

Uh, wait. She is.

My muse is a perpetually intoxicated, scantily clad, overly flirtatious and violently charming bit of wit and humor who scarcely stays in place long enough to be of real help to me. She is much that I used to be (in my younger days) and all that I wish I still were.

She doesn't look very muse-like, either. More like a Valkyrie with a pen instead of a sword. Cuz really, words can do more damage then long, sharp, pointy things.

Yeah - my muse is a bad-ass.

She's short (like me), has dark hair (like me) and green eyes (also like me).  She's wicked smart, has a truly evil and childlike sense of humor (think eight year old boy jokes) and refuses to eat anything green or hairy.  She has a penchant for black leather, silver piercings and too many tattoos. She likes bad boys, good scotch and warm beds. Other than that, we're nothing alike.

Okay, we both love watching The Voice. Because really, who wouldn't want to be caught between Blake and Adam? But that's as far as our similarities go. Honestly.

Her head never pounds with the thread of regret from an evening too well enjoyed. Her joints never argue with her, regardless of weather or position, no matter the ridiculous pose she tries to hold. She never picks her bra off the lamp shade or her panties off the floor. She never even worries about clean underwear. If she doesn't have any, she goes without.

Yeah - commando style. No wonder the guys love her. Even my husband loves her, because he knows when she's around, I'll loosen up, relax, unwind and have some fun. With him. She does that to me. She kicks me in the head with a story idea so stunning and original, I fly up the stairs and let it rain from my fingers to the keyboard.

When I finally get it committed to paper, I am still so wound up I turn to him for the kind of release only he can grant. The easing of ache and tense muscle and highly awakened, rapidly firing neurons only he can soothe.

Oh, come on - your mind is in the gutter again. Back rub, people, back rub! Geesh - what, you think I'm like my muse? Oh, wait. I am :-)  And now I've enthralled Ya'll~ Hooyah!