I was sitting at the PC when I glanced up and saw her perched on the top of my monitor, peering intently at me with her legs inelegantly crossed at the knees, revealing the bottom of her thigh and the dark band of her hosiery. Her tight, ratty and once fashionable tweed skirt pulled up past the knee from the straining, leaving a view I really wasn’t prepared for. I averted my eyes with a shudder.
“Good Lord, if you aren’t a mess. Do you lay around the house like that all day?” she asked. “I would ask you when you last bathed if I dared.”
“Yeah, I do lay about all day. Why do you ask? It’s not like you cared. You left with the rest.” I shot back.
“As I recall, you tossed me out with the rest.”
“You don’t recall very well. I didn’t toss you anywhere!”
“You tossed out the women who inspired you. You didn’t have any other inspiring things around?” She asked.
I fleetingly though I caught a wisp of genuine concern from her, but quickly dismissed it as wishful thinking.
“Apparently not. I usually write for someone’s approval. My ego just doesn’t hold much in the way of inspiration for me. Besides, I didn’t toss them out. They left.”
“If they were smart, they fled.” She cackled in that annoying way of hers.
“Well, whatever. They are gone, and I shut the door behind them. Jeesh. They really believe I am going to ‘have a cup of coffee’ with them some day. Why do women do that?”
“And you moped around for three years afterwards?”
“Yeah. I did. Turns out I also had an undiagnosed illness that made an emotional wreak out of me. I wasn’t prepared for that, and was doubly shot down. So tell me why you ask.”
“Cripes, what a mess you are. I think you need to get a new set of lounge clothes, get a professional barbering, and start sitting straight at the keyboard.”
“You don’t look so good yourself.” I snarled
“At least I am dressed. You are still in your damned PJ’s.” She retorted
“At least they are not ragged. You too busy to stop by Goodwill for a new skirt? That ragged thing went out of style in 1972. And a red Rayon blouse?”
“What would you know about style, hero? You write like Mickey Spillane.”
“Yeah. I do. When I write. I dunno, I have never really ever tried to develop a style. Besides, Spillane made tons of money writing like Spillane.”
“Spillane made lots of money by writing.”
“Well, money isn’t the object at this point. Just catching a theme that could hold my attention for more than three days would be remarkable progress.”
“So you haven’t done anything with Akashaic?”
“No. I set up a timeline, pared some of the characters and demoted some more, and wrote bios for the remaining ones, but the story has sat for three years. I started a series called Shaman in the Sagebrush, but it got mostly ho-hum comments, so I shelved it.”
“And your Journal?”
“I started three or four sites on multiply.com® and one on Blogster®. But I really am not all that social, and the current crop of lefties are ignorant, effete asses, though most of them pat themselves on the back for their stellar intelligence. I think their trashing of Paula Jones back in the Clinton era exposed them enough for me.”
“Geesh. You still bitching about Clinton? You are an anachronism.”
“Don’t use big words, it confuses the lefties. Anyway, I am migrating my Journal over to WordPress® and my writings over to Blogger®. I may link to them from Blogster® for a time if it works, but it appears that most people on Blogster wont do links, so I may lose many of them.”
“Are you going to pick up Akashaic now?”
“No, I think I’ll journal for a bit, tell some vignettes, and maybe try my hand at simple poetry for a bit. I am not ready to bury myself into an epic now.”
“Well, hero, I am here if you need me.” she said, giving a little wiggle on top of the monitor.
I averted my eyes.