What happens to someone when all of their ideas become stale or regurgitated?
What if they are so unindustrious that everyone else alive today can seemingly take a common theme and work it so masterfully that it resounds with others but even with a shiny spin and some skillful smoke and mirrors moves you STILL can’t get it to develop properly?
Notice that initially the mystery person in question here could have been anyone and now suddenly it’s mutated into me?
Yeah, I’m out of steam. So what?
It happens every single year at the same time just like clockwork. There’s the inevitable whining about how busy my life is and how difficult it’s become to type out a couple hundred measly words that don’t even have to conform to any sort of well written standard.
Or maybe I give you the sob story of a difficult year, with difficult kids.
Then I get a huge God complex where I INSIST that the rules of grammar and nature don’t even apply to me because I’m trying to bear my soul to you goddamnit and you will NOT entwine me in your meaningless minutiae!
Whah whah.
ANYWAY….
Last month my buddy at 20 Prospect crafted a post about the Invisible Sun, (which gives its heat to everyone, RIGHT STING?) and I found myself scratching my matted head, dumbfounded because I too had a post titled “Invisible Sun” in my draft section.
What are the odds?
Realistically, the odds for me are slightly higher due to the deeply felt love and adoration I harbor for the three divinely talented and impossibly adorable members of the STILL defunct POLICE.
sigh....
But I digress.
Ahem.
So here is the original post that I kinda stole from Gordon Sumner and sorta pilfered from Tom and I don’t really fucking care because there are people starving somewhere. Or so my mom says.
Did you ever happen upon one of those people who has heat radiating out from every pore, warming everyone they come in contact with during the day? Like a compact version of your own personal invisible sun? You can almost see the little joy explosions erupting from their surface and the little baby magma splatters hit your arm and become instantly infectious rendering you powerless to stop their migration straight to your cold, hard, jaded innards.
There is nothing not to love about these guys. In a world overrun with life vampires who try to suck the wind out of your sails and the happy from your soul these sparkling gems of humanity are a rare and delightful find. Like the caramel milk chocolate prize in the fruity gel filled crapfest that is the Whitman Sampler.
When I find one of these people, I just marvel at their goodness and then I latch on to them and try to ride the well-tailored hem of their coattails for as long as humanly possible in the hopes that some of it rubs off on me.
Who wouldn’t want to be attached to someone who will fill your world with YES and can simultaneously override the inborn Moro reflex that tries to prevent you from taking the inevitable fall you will have when you let go of this fast-moving dynamo?
There are days I feel that only a truly industrial sized steel wool pad could scour the rot from my soul but then the invisible sun comes along and scorches it to ash with the blinding heat of positive thinking and the intensity of twin stars going super nova.
You gotta love a bitch who burns with such brutal ferocity and the conviction of righteousness! I should knit her a cape.
