Life is...good?

Uh...so, I've found myself with very little to write lately. I've felt rather uninspired. This has actually been really bothering me lately. So, after much thought on the subject (primarily comprised of testing the durability of my wooden desk with my head) I figured out why my muse has sudden fluttered away.

Well, you see, my muse is less of a majestic, mythical creature as it is an evil, conniving adrenaline junkie who likes to inspire utter chaos and panic for her own amusement, and is essentially schadenfreude embodied. It's also apparently severely bipolar as it enjoys beauty about as much as that creepy kid in American Beauty..















Yes you, you weird fuck.

So, it seems that I can only write in the midst of extreme tragedy or euphoria. I've never been so good at minutiae. Maybe Virginia Woolf could teach me a thing or two...or perhaps I shouldn't take advice from someone who began to hear voices and consequently filled her coat with rocks and walked into the River Ouse.

I digress.

Anyway, as for my lack of inspiration, I think I'm going to try a more Woolf-esque approach. Stay tuned for possibly embarrassing attempts at elevating the mundane.

Still writing,

Bohemian Dandy