May 11, 2010

The affliction of phlegm is upon me, settling in my nose, chest and throat. Its powerful slop oozing throughout every tissue, making joints ache where I didn't realize they existed. Does my trusty Monster Chihuahua realize my recent woes? Not in the least. Sniffling, sneezing and runny nose is invisible to her black and white state. Does she see that I want to sit and write, or nap. Naps. That's what I crave at the moment, but I've made this commitment to write 100 words a day. Today I'll master no more than that. 100 WORDS of gibberish in my current epic of which my inner critic has recently ignored, if only my Monster Chi would do the same. But no, she awaits no affliction. Her needs take precedence over all others. Give me a pat on the head, a treat for doing my bodily functions. That's your job, she tells me. And like a dutiful concubine, I follow her whims. It's better than clean-up. But still I must stick to my present commitment. 100 words. If only I had the thoughts to go with them, some sort of clue as to where the plot leads. Where is the plot, by the way? Be damned all those rules others speak of. Since when does art have rules? Since when have I ever tried following them? Who is that looking over my shoulder? No one. Hah! No one!