SpaghettiBurrito.com big ideas for small times: Honey, this thing is bigger than your penis

Honey, this thing is bigger than your penis

So I already told y'all (like a hundred and fifty two times) that I'm running away to the beach, but I never offered up why (other than I am pretty much out of my efing mind, which I would be anyway anywhere, beach or no beach). But, like everything else in this world, there's the back story, the front story and the sideways story. Now I know what you're thinking. I'm taking off to the end of the world to make some awesome paint by numbers oil masterpieces by the sea, start my own cult, or (the most obvious of the three) begin my human to serpent transition like that dude in the movie from the 70's that gave me nightmares that lasted well beyond childhood. Well, you're wrong. Each and every one of you. I'm running away to write the great un-American novel (and by un-American I don't mean flag burning asshole, I mean I'm not trying to dress all goth, cut myself when other people are watching to make them feel sorry for me and live some kind of douchebag cliché).

You see for as long as I can remember there's a whole city, an entire world or universe even, of people places and things being born, stabbing each other, flying spaceships and having happy and un-happy endings all in my head. Sometimes they talk to me and sometimes they are too busy friending and fucking and fighting each other to even notice that I am there. Which really sucks considering that I am, at a very minimum, their landlord if not their lord and creator. Now I know how god (if he exists) must feel all pissed off and shit at everyone for throwing all of these wild parties and not even sending him so much as an evite.

And since this world inside my world is soo effing entertaining and I'm in this hippy dippy eff it free love for anyone who wants it kind of zone lately I figured the time has come to move some of these people out of my head and onto a page. Plus it's getting pretty crowded in there. Now as anyone who has ever tried to write anything that's worth a crap knows, it's not as easy at it sounds. It's kind of like how when you're drunk and you think something would make a really funny tweet, or some random guy would make an excellent naked trampoline thing-y, or that it's a good idea to take your top off in the street sign a release and become the star of the next installation of 'Girls Gone Wild'. The next day you're all like 'not so much' and 'where the fuck is the undo button'.

Now getting this cast of characters from my head to yours *sounds* like it would be fairly easy. But guess what, it's really effing not. I know because I've tried like a million times and quit the past 999,999. I start riding that train and then I get off like a few hundred stops short of the final destination because my desire to write it all down just simply fades away into the darkness of my own head. And then I pick it up a few days, months or years later only to put it down again. You see in order to fuel enough passion to bring these bad boys to life I need a really strong dose of inspiration, a muse if you will. Truth be told, I probably need 67 muses to be able to tell a story all the way to the sort-of end.

And so here I sit, at the end of the world, searching for that combination of people, places and things that will make me feel on fire from the first hair on my head to the end of the nail on my baby toe. I want to be consumed by desire that can never be fulfilled. Because nothing fuels a passionate poison that can only be leeched out by putting pen to paper like the fruit of that forbidden, unrequited desirous tree. The trouble with muses is that they are (for me) humans or humanish things like men or cats or Barbie dolls and they lose their shiny sparkly new car sheen all too quickly. The man muses are the most troublesome. They think (a little) more than cats and Barbie dolls and then they get all full of themselves and suddenly it becomes all about their penis and how awesome it is and how it can make a girl's eyes all *sparkly* and then they feel compelled to be the utlimate buzzkill by taking the stupid thing out and then the rest is history. The next thing you know I get talked into going to the movies or getting married or something and then I become all uninspired and go back to sitting in my house playing tetris and eating cheese to pass the time.

Well world, I am making a public promise right here and right now: NO WAY NO HOW NOT THIS TIME FROM MY COLD DEAD HANDS MOTHERFUCKER! I will let no man, cat or Barbie doll hypnotize me with their penis, imaginary or otherwise. I will remember that I am the proverbial man in the desert whose feet are inspired to keep moving only by oasis mirages off in the distance but would surely lay down and die if he happened upon *actual* water. I will remember that in life pretty much all of the fun is in the journey and only jackasses race to the finish line to get to the end first. And I will totally remember that in the rock paper scissors game of life, art beats penis. Each and every time.