My Defective Muse

I need a muse.

I used to write more. Honestly. But lately, I've been spiritually bereft and devoid of ideas. I couldn't even come up with a decent blog post idea. Don't I deserve a muse? Haven't they served some of the greatest authors in history and inspired some of the best literature known to man? Hey, if it was good enough for Byron and Keats, then surely it's good enough for me.

I was thinking about this the other night as I started writing a story about a sentient chair that starts talking back to people when they sit on it. Oddly enough it just wasn't coming together, so I decided to take matters into my own hands. Clasping my hands upwards in prayer, I cried out, "Sweet Muse, dear Muse. Please come and bestow your gifts upon me. Shower me with your golden prose and words of wisdom."

And she appeared. My Muse, my very own Muse, gliding delicately down from the ceiling. A misty blue light surrounded her, illuminating her pink taffeta dress and halo of blonde curls. Her soft features seemed to radiate with warmth and beauty. I was awestruck. I was beyond myself with anticipation.  I was enraptured.  I was…

"What the hell do you want?" she croaked in a raspy voice.

I was in trouble.

"You're my muse! I need inspiration!" I could already tell this wasn't going to go well.

"Oh, they all want inspiration." My Muse sighed wearily and flung herself onto the sofa. She unhooked the clasp on a pink purse and brought a couple of cans of Coors Light. Of course they were warm. "Here ya go sweetie", she said brightly, handing me one. "You need a good idea, huh?" She cracked open her beer with a loud pop.

"Well I have a good ide - yeah....I need a good idea."

"Well, I got a couple for you, I think." She opened up her purse again, took out a pack of Marlboro Reds, and shook one from its carton. "Whatcha ya got so far?"

I showed her my screen.

"What the hell is that?" My Muse laughed and exhaled a stream of smoke from one nostril. "A fucking talking chair? Boy do you suck!" 

"W-Well, " I stuttered defensively, "You're my muse. It's your fault I'm in this mess." The Muse rolled her eyes and flicked ashes onto my leather sofa. "Look," I pleaded, "Don't you have anything for me? A glimpse of inspiration? A crumb of wit? Anything?" 

"Well, I have something you could write about…" My Muse sighed and leaned back into the sofa cushions, one hand in her pink waistband.

"OK!" I put my fingers on the keyboard, ready to type.   

"But what's in it for me?" She sniffed her armpit and winced slightly. 

There are those who believe that muses are divine deities whose sole existence rests on their ability to arouse passion and inspire prose. The daughters of Zeus and Mnemosyne, they are goddesses that spout words; jewels that fall from the sky and land upon their chosen vessels, like dew atop a gilded lily. She wasn't wasn't one of those muses.

.
"There's not supposed to be anything in it for you!" I screamed. "You're my GODDAMN MUSE!"

"Relax, Jesus Christ!" My Muse grinned and picked her nose with one perfectly manicured fingernail. "Don't get your Calvin Klein's all in a bunch."  

This wasn't working. Maybe I was just imagining her wrong. "Aren't there any, like, guy muses?" I asked. "You know, gorgeous hunky men with long flowing hair, deep booming masculine voices, strongly chiseled features and the bodies of Greek gods…"

My Muse sighed and blinked sleepily. "Oh, there are guy muses", she said, casually smashing a empty beer can on her forehead and tossing it behind the couch, "But they look nothing like Greek gods, I assure you. I've met a few. Fat little guys with thick glasses and no girlfriends. Live in their parent's basements. Guy muses are a dime a dozen sweetie." She paused and sucked thoughtfully on her cigarette. "But they only work on certain assignments mind you; sci-fi, really bad fan fiction, stuff like that." She threw the cigarette onto the carpet and stepped on it with one pink satin-clad heel.

"That's all they work on?"

"Well, it's a full time job isn't it?" My Muse countered. "I mean terrible fan fiction is all over the internet nowadays and somebody needs to inspire it. Do you even realize how difficult it is to write a sex scene between Harry Potter and Draco and make it sound believable?"

I let out an involuntary shiver.  The scary thing was, I think I did know. 

"Listen honey," My Muse said, pausing long enough to spit over her shoulder, "Why don't you just write about me. I mean, I'm an interesting person. I've got hobbies…"

"You?"

"I collect beanie babies." the Muse continued, oblivious to my interruption. "Turn-ons include tattoos and sunsets. Turn-offs; guys who cry and…"

"Why on earth would I want to write about YOU?!" I asked. This was getting ridiculous. 

My Muse leaned forward and smiled. "Look at it this way", she said, blowing a cloud of smoke in my face."Ya got nothing else. Either you write about me, or continue with your talking chair shit."

Then she belched.  

Inspiration struck.