Ah.. the muse. Fair-voiced Calliope to woo the poet. Lovely Erato with her crown of rose. Pleasant Euterpe with her fingers upon the lyre. Tragic Melpomene with her songs of joy. Daughters of gods and mothers of slain heroes.
I must admit, my muse is made of more mortal stuff.
Her appearance is, shall we say, less than Greek.
Her hair is of the color of the common mouse and most often wound about huge, plastic rollers.
Her figure? I cannot say, for I have seen her wear nothing other than a battered pink, quilted housecoat of a silky fabric that melts when burned. We will not say how this is known. But, it is of the kind that obscures all curves. Perhaps that is best.
Her habits do not recommend her, either, nor do her tastes. She prefers menthols and has a bad habit of leaving lit cigarettes in ashtrays, if she is feeling chipper, or anything else, when she is less than pleasant.
Her mood is most often sullen and she brings little joy. She may go hours, days, weeks without speaking. She turns a deaf ear to my pleas and chain-smokes silently, kicking her fuzzy-slippered foot and baring her unshaven leg as she watches reruns of Jerry Springer into the early hours.
It is hardly a marriage of convenience, as she does not cook. Or clean. Or produce anything that could be considered of any use. Indeed, she is free with my funds in ways that are so shocking that good sense tells me I should throw her clothes out into the night and lock the door.
Yet, I cannot bear to part with her. She is mine. And those moments that she deigns to give me a small glimpse into my own soul's debt to the human race and the wonder of the stars are more precious than diamonds, though they be as rare.
The time you enjoy wasting is not wasted time. - Bertrand Russell
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