Trains and Muse Abuse

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FrownI was happily playing a computer railroad sim where I was the engineer of a heavy freight. masterly running it over Tehachapi Pass, when I noticed her fidgeting as she sat on top of the monitor.  She was still in her shop-worn, too tight sharks tooth skirt, and hideous pink rayon® blouse. And horrors. She was wearing a felt ‘elves’ hat with a huge white tassel ball on the end.

Just when you think she couldn’t possibly commit a worse fashion statement, she ups the ante. She swung her legs over the edge and tried sitting pixie-like, and I averted my eyes until she got her dimpled knees back together.

“Can’t you see I am busy?” I said as I applied a little dynamic breaking to keep the train from running unchecked towards Cable Crossover.

“Busy my …”

“Watch it, Sis.  This is a family blog.” I warned.

“… patootie!” she replied sullenly.

“You can take your patootie and …”

She waved her finger in the universal no-no sign, and said, “Your rules, Master Prig. Let keep it to one standard.”

“So what brings your intrusion on my conscience today?” hitting pause on the game. A man cannot run a train and talk to an inquisitive woman at the same time.  Both can cause a train wreck.  One actually, and one metaphorically.

“Mainly, your lack of a conscience.  You need one.  Just call me the conscience fairy.” she replied smugly.  I could almost see her crowing.

“I admit I am feeling a bit guilt stricken over my lack of discipline.” I went on. “I have been down for a while, now, and I can’t write when my soul is unquiet.”

“How quiet was your soul when you tried to write that pornography short?” She smirked.

“I never finished it.  Anyway, it was the product of a dare to write a man-viewed version of Shades of Gray after I panned it on a blogsite. The women there tried to put me up to it.  I admitted defeat.”

“How noble of you.  Many women like it when they are around men who know what they want, and are forceful in getting it.”

“The women in my life like it when I hit the toilet bowl ten out of ten.  But in all honesty, I could not do it as a serious write.  I am not very comfortable playing around with the primal instincts of humans.  We have ‘em, but we should be trying to overcome them.  Anyway, that is my story, and I am sticking with it.”

“That was about the only thing you tried to produce this season.  You don’t have a lifetime left to accomplish something worthwhile.” she said, putting on her best Dutch Uncle-ette look.

“Maybe I won’t ever do anything exceptional in my life.” I lamented.

“Well, if we aren’t just bubbling with optimism.  Come on!  Give me something to work with, here!”

“Sorry.  But I am just out of ideas right now.”

“I’m the idea fairy.  You are the writer.  Write something, and I’ll give you something.”

“I am not so sure you got anything I want!” I retorted.

“You are too high and mighty, hero.  You want to be as deep as James Joyce, as heroic as Hemmingway, and as funny as PJ O’Rouke, but you aren’t willing to put the time into it that it takes.  You want easy success!” she preached.

“Well, yeah … and your point?  Besides, you just said that time is running out for me.”

“I didn’t say it had run out, Mr. Sunshine.  I just want you to write something.  Come on!  Let me show you what I can do for you!”

“Well, for starters …”

“Well, not that!  Why not do another ‘It is ok to wish me a Merry Christmas!’ piece?”

“Maybe I will.”

“And maybe you should.”

“And maybe YOU should ….”

“Watch it, Master Prig.  You’re stepping out of character.  Assuming you ever had any.” she said as she flitted away.

I averted my eyes again …

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