I got juice and I'm gonna use it
Ok it's not much, but it's enough to write a good segment. For the benefit of Pistol, I'm gonna stack the first part to the second part
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Inspiration refers to an unconscious burst of creativity in a literary, musical, or other artistic endeavor. Literally, the word means "breathed upon" either by the gods (those crazy Greeks), God (those crazy Judeo-Christians), or the mystical winds (those crazy Romantic Era poets). Also, inspiration can also derive from the association of ideas in one's mind (that crazy John Locke), the inner psyche of the artist (the most definitely crazy, Sigmund Freud) or a connection to the universal archetypes of the collective consciousness (the way cooler, but still crazy Carl Jung). But back to those crazy Greeks, inspiration also came in the form of muses; nine of them if I remember correctly, which I don't because my knowledge of Greek mythology stopped at the 5th grade level, and I didn't know much of it then, even though I thought I did. But here in the modern world, muses are everywhere. You either have to find one, make one up, or if you happen to be really lucky, one finds you.
I saw her at a coffee shop sitting all by herself, reading by the front window. I was taking one of the many walks I took when I had no clue as to what to do with my writing, my financial troubles, or just my life. I had been staring at my computer for four hours, and all I could type was "It was a dark and stormy night." I had to sneak out the back stairs just so I didn't have to run into Mrs. Beckett, and tell her I'd be late paying the rent again. It's kinda hard scrounging up the money when you've decided to live the life of a struggling writer. My only option was to walk off all the troubles cluttering up my mind, and just as I was about to give up and walk back, there she was.
I never thought of myself to be the type to prefer blondes but today they appealed to me. Her green eyes glimmered behind her glasses as they lightly scanned through the pages of her book. She sat up straight with impeccable posture, accentuating her slim figure. Her right leg was crossed over her left and her foot was lightly tapping the air, probably moving to the beat of whatever song she was listening to on her I-pod. As I scanned back up to see her face, her eyes met mine.
I'd like to say next that I waved to say hello and she smiled mouthing hello back. Then I'd like to say I went into the coffee shop, sat across from her and started chatting. Finally, I'd like to end it off by saying we dated, we kissed, we got married, and we lived happily ever after. But, that's not what happened. Out of panic and shock as she caught me staring for a good minute I looked away and took a brisk walk far away from what could have been a delightful set of events.
What did I just do?!! I'm stupid! I so, so stupid!!
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Ok freeze!
Let me re-evaluate the situation here. I just stared at a beautiful woman for a hot second, maybe even thirty. Our eyes met, and I bolted like a scared little puppy. Am I a scared, little puppy? I think not. I've met many ladies before ten times hotter than she is. Granted, I had a bit of liquid courage now and again to get me started. Plus, she's the first blonde I've come across to have some sort of interest in. She's not that special man. You still got time to salvage this. Get it together, walk calmly but confidently back to the coffee shop, park yourself on that empty seat across from her, look straight past her glasses and deep into her green eyes and say.
“I didn't mean to take off like that so abruptly but for a minute there I thought you were my ex. She used to come to this coffee shop too, and she used to be a brunette. But enough about her. I'm Leonard Salamanca. Who are you?”
She took my extended hand and shook it. “Paula Sloan.” She held my hand firm but graceful. Safe! “We can talk for about five more minutes before my boyfriend gets here.” Correction. Out!
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Ok. Until next week haha!
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Inspiration refers to an unconscious burst of creativity in a literary, musical, or other artistic endeavor. Literally, the word means "breathed upon" either by the gods (those crazy Greeks), God (those crazy Judeo-Christians), or the mystical winds (those crazy Romantic Era poets). Also, inspiration can also derive from the association of ideas in one's mind (that crazy John Locke), the inner psyche of the artist (the most definitely crazy, Sigmund Freud) or a connection to the universal archetypes of the collective consciousness (the way cooler, but still crazy Carl Jung). But back to those crazy Greeks, inspiration also came in the form of muses; nine of them if I remember correctly, which I don't because my knowledge of Greek mythology stopped at the 5th grade level, and I didn't know much of it then, even though I thought I did. But here in the modern world, muses are everywhere. You either have to find one, make one up, or if you happen to be really lucky, one finds you.
I saw her at a coffee shop sitting all by herself, reading by the front window. I was taking one of the many walks I took when I had no clue as to what to do with my writing, my financial troubles, or just my life. I had been staring at my computer for four hours, and all I could type was "It was a dark and stormy night." I had to sneak out the back stairs just so I didn't have to run into Mrs. Beckett, and tell her I'd be late paying the rent again. It's kinda hard scrounging up the money when you've decided to live the life of a struggling writer. My only option was to walk off all the troubles cluttering up my mind, and just as I was about to give up and walk back, there she was.
I never thought of myself to be the type to prefer blondes but today they appealed to me. Her green eyes glimmered behind her glasses as they lightly scanned through the pages of her book. She sat up straight with impeccable posture, accentuating her slim figure. Her right leg was crossed over her left and her foot was lightly tapping the air, probably moving to the beat of whatever song she was listening to on her I-pod. As I scanned back up to see her face, her eyes met mine.
I'd like to say next that I waved to say hello and she smiled mouthing hello back. Then I'd like to say I went into the coffee shop, sat across from her and started chatting. Finally, I'd like to end it off by saying we dated, we kissed, we got married, and we lived happily ever after. But, that's not what happened. Out of panic and shock as she caught me staring for a good minute I looked away and took a brisk walk far away from what could have been a delightful set of events.
What did I just do?!! I'm stupid! I so, so stupid!!
------------------------------------
Ok freeze!
Let me re-evaluate the situation here. I just stared at a beautiful woman for a hot second, maybe even thirty. Our eyes met, and I bolted like a scared little puppy. Am I a scared, little puppy? I think not. I've met many ladies before ten times hotter than she is. Granted, I had a bit of liquid courage now and again to get me started. Plus, she's the first blonde I've come across to have some sort of interest in. She's not that special man. You still got time to salvage this. Get it together, walk calmly but confidently back to the coffee shop, park yourself on that empty seat across from her, look straight past her glasses and deep into her green eyes and say.
“I didn't mean to take off like that so abruptly but for a minute there I thought you were my ex. She used to come to this coffee shop too, and she used to be a brunette. But enough about her. I'm Leonard Salamanca. Who are you?”
She took my extended hand and shook it. “Paula Sloan.” She held my hand firm but graceful. Safe! “We can talk for about five more minutes before my boyfriend gets here.” Correction. Out!
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Ok. Until next week haha!