Waaiting on Somebody

I was just wondering if I could stare into the blank screen of my laptop for the entire time it takes for the battery to fizzle out? I have run out of other things to do here while I wait for inspiration to arrive. I feel like someone waiting for a blind date to show up. I hope he’s cute. I’m wearing black work out clothes so at least I won’t look fat. Today it looks like I might get stood up. Inspiration often pulls that on me. If I had his number I’d call and leave a nasty message.

I don’t have his number so I sit and wait. Whenever the door opens I look up hopefully but it’s not him. There is nothing in the paper to piss me off significantly enough to compel me to write some sort of blow-hard opinion piece. No shortage of blow-hard opinion pieces out here on the internet, we’re full of opinions.

I did get a kick out of that story of how the State Department claimed back in April that terrorism declined sharply in 2003. Yesterday the State Department announced that the earlier claim was incorrect. “I’m sorry, did we say best year? We meant worst year for terrorism.”

I’m too depressed about the bottom-dwelling Mariners to write anything about baseball. The M’s lost 2-10 against the Rangers. How could M’s fans be further humiliated? Maybe they could dump a bucket of filthy mop water on the first 10,000 fans before the next home game. How about after every loss for the remainder of the season clowns standing at the exits hit each fan in the face with a pie or hit people over the head with a dead chicken? Fans of a last place team would take that sort of abuse passively enough. Almost anything is better that getting beat 2-10 by fucking TEXAS!

Should I wait a little more for Mister Inspiration or should I just say “screw it” and pack up? I’ve got better things to do than wait around for that creep. I have a book I’m almost finished with. I haven’t played my piano in so long I’m afraid that it may have gone feral on me. I have a good excuse for not playing: I have a bunch of winter clothes on the bench that need to go downstairs for Seattle’s two month summer. My piano could be the world’s biggest and most expensive laundry hamper. It certainly hasn’t qualified as a musical instrument in a while.

I’m sorry I’ve had to drag you into this mess. You don’t need to hear about my relationship with Inspiration. I guess I don’t need to tell anyone who reads this tripe I write that, for me, inspiration is like a cross between Sasquatch and a dead-beat dad: dubious at best and quite possibly abusive. Inspiration is like my imaginary girlfriend who I tell people lives in Canada. Inspiration gives me a black eye and I tell people at work that it was my own fault.