Day Four: Musings

8:00 AM
It has been brought to my attention—by absolutely no one, but my conscience—that my fiction has been rather dark lately. Between an evil Boris Kodjoe look-alike, Mr. Asiimwe, and the tragically dead Kenneth, it’s been gloom, doom, and emotional damage.

So today I’ll take a break from the story-with-no-fitting-title and write something light.
Something with rainbows and daisies and unicorns and a happy ending.
At least. Today.

Well…

9:00 PM
Blinking cursor. Blinking cursor.
It blinks with judgment. It knows my sins.

10:30 AM
…Hey guys, look. The cursor is blinking. It looks so preeeetty!
Okay. I think I’ve been hypnotised by the blinking cursor. I need to stop looking at this freaking blinking cursor before I confess my deepest fears to it.

11:00 AM
One, two, three, four, five, teacher waiting at the door.
Six, seven, eight, nine, ten…
………
That’s it. That’s all I’ve got. Childhood: forgotten. Just like my motivation.

12:30 PM
Maybe I should wait for inspiration to strike. You know, like lightning! Very dramatic. Very biblical. As I wait, let me chew on some salted groundnuts—or as the bougie people call it, piiiirnat burtter (read: peanut butter).

Surely, like lightning, inspiration will strike. I will write something hilarious and profound and people will laugh and think of rainbows and daisies and unicorns and say, “Wow. She is healed.”

My Muse. My Muse is a toxic situationship.
Sometimes present. Mostly unavailable. Leaves me on read.
If only he/she/they would grace me with their presence (I genuinely don’t know the Muse’s gender, but I do know they are disrespectful).

In the words of one bright dude I have the pleasure of knowing:

“The relationship between my Muse and I is complicated at best.”

1:00 PM
OMG THERE HE IS.
The guy I have a crush on.

He is handsome. Criminally handsome. The kind of handsome that makes you forget why you came into the room. The kind that should come with a warning label.

And there go my hands. Sweaty. Betraying me.
My heart is racing faster than a Formula One car sponsored by anxiety.

I must look serious! Intelligent! Like I have my life together!
But not too serious. I don’t want to look like I file taxes for fun.

WHERE ARE MY GLASSES?!
Apparently, they make me look like a sexy librarian. I don’t know when librarians became sexy, but the internet has spoken.

Wait. Do I have any tomorrow-tomorrow?
Why is my mouth suddenly dry?
Why am I standing like this?

CRAAP—he’s smiling at me.
Is that for me? For me me?

Do I have kikati in my teeth?
Quick—swipe teeth with tongue. Smile. Nod like a sane human being.

…Okay. He’s not looking anymore.
I hate everything. Especially myself.

4:00 PM
FINALLY! An idea for a story!

Once upon a time, Edward ran into a building and, with his superhuman strength, saved Bella. But Jacob also ran in, all sinewy muscles and ripped abs, held onto Bella, gave her a single white rose—and she knew…

Wait. No. This is Twilight.
Why is my brain like this?

And then they lived happily never after.

Yeah. That’s not sunny. Or light. Or unicorn-approved.

Let me go back to thinking about my crush.
And how his gait holds a perfect trait.
(OMG THAT RHYMED. I AM A POET. SOMEONE CALL OXFORD.)

5:00 PM
I am outta here!
Productivity has left the chat.

6:00 PM
Kajambo, Andrew.
(This is important. Don’t ask why.)

6:30 PM
That one time I watched Ramon Film Productions and a car that was shot… bled.
Like a human.
Cinema.

7:00 PM
I give up. Let me complete this story with no title. Second instalment coming soon.
Same time. Same blinking cursor.

XOXO,
Gossip Girl.
Mable.