evilbeej | Don't epic poems begin with discourse with a Muse? I think? Maybe?

1667

"So of course the second I actually sit down to *do* it, right? The fact that I didn't sleep at all last night catches up with me, all in one big fucking big ton of bricks. Like, a metric tonne. A metric fuckload. Of bricks. Bricks of not-sleeping. Bricks of oh-my-god-tired."

"So what did you do?"

"I wrote that down. I figured 1667 words of complaining were, well, 1667 words, so I might as well bite the bullet and complain. Not that complaining takes a lot of effort. I think humanity's built to complain. All those people who train themselves out of it, out of whining, moaning, whatever -- whinging -- they're like, superstars. They're *gods*. Because dude, the self-restraint necessary to not complain if given half a chance has got to be *epic*. I'm so serious."

"Cosmic Boy doesn't complain. Much."

"Cosmic Boy also has 17 goddamn dice in Pep Talks and Contagious Confidence."

"Now you're just bragging."

"Bragging is good filler."

"Bragging is NOT good filler. And neither is arguing."

"Yes it is."

"No it isn't."

"Yes it is."

"No it-- WE ARE NOT DOING THE ARGUMENT SKETCH. This is not Monty Python."

"I know. Anyway, complaining is fun. You're getting the hang of it."

"I'm not either! I'm objecting! There's a difference! A HUGE difference!"

"Yo, thanks for upping my wordcount with the dramatic foil business. Er, lackey. Minion. Fourth-wall-breakin' Muse. Whatever the hell you're supposed to be."

"I hate you."

"No, you don't know me at all. Which is why I'm totally not asking you if I can interview you. Or if someone I know can interview you."

"Oh, I know you. I'm not actually the person you're Studiously Not Bothering. I'm a fictional representation of your creative urge to write, given, *BY YOUR OWN PSYCHO FANGIRL HAND*, the likeness and name of the most infamous character said person ever played. For which, BY THE WAY, I never actually smacked you. I should. It was a really mean thing to do, because now I'm stuck like this and you're embarrassed by me because it was SO FANGIRL of you."

"You're complaaaaaining..."

"I hate you."

"Now you're repeating yourself."

"You make it so easy. Nothing actually makes it through your skull the first five or six times."

"So you've degenerated to insults?"

"You degenerated to irritating observations of the blindingly obvious like six goes back."

"'Six goes'?"

"Dude, you're the one who wrote it. You explain it. Ass."

"'Goes' as in 'have a go at it'. So six rounds. Because this is totally mental boxing. It's just not boxing clever. Ollie needs a boxing clever glove arrow."

"You're blathering to yourself, now."

"No, I'm blathering /at you/. My Muse. My contrary, bitchy, immature little twerp of a Muse who nevertheless retains his heartthrob status. You had the worst lines ever, at times, but going over them in my head is still better than trying to socialise with crazy people."

"Oh god, is it 1667 yet?"

"Dunno. But suddenly, I want to do a big chunk of nano right at the beginning, so I can make the rest of the days all by 1337 words a piece."

"Do I know you? I don't know you. POLICE! THIS STRANGE GIRL IS HARASSING ME!"

"Sit the hell down. We're only up to 544 as of the end of your cry of exasperated faux-panic."

"This is stupid."

"This is getting to 1667."

"That's not an excuse, y'know."

"It's totally an excuse. I'm desperate enough for padding at this point that I'm gonna tell you my favorite new line. It's from a Theodore Sturgeon short story, and it's 'She was unbelievably dumb, and an utterly fascinating person to know slightly.'"

"..."

"What?"

"Nothing."

"No seriously, what?"

"No seriously, nothing. If I said what I thought, hell if I know what you'd do."

"I can't actually do anything to you. You don't exist."

"That's precisely why you can do anything you want to me."

"I'm sure that came out a lot kinkier than you meant it to."

"You're a pervert."

"No, I'm just surrounded by perverts *all the time*. And it really depends on your definition of perversion. I mean, depending on your own personal moral standards-- no. I mean, are you basing the judgement of perversion on them? On your own personal moral standards? Or are you basing them on societal mores? And if so, which society? Mainstream United States? Newsflash, from the Clash: there's not really even that anymore. It differs from region to region."

"You have to write as much shit as you did this morning *two more times* to make your wordcount."

"I'm partway there already."

"Brilliance. Sheer, unadulterated brilliance."

"You're not helping. I'm supposed to be able to bounce stuff off you, and then you act as a sounding board, and inspire me to greater heights of... of greatness. You're supposed to inspire me, damnit! Get inspiring!"

"I'm not Cosmic Boy."

"Shut up! I am so jealous."

"You're not jealous of *me*."

"Close e-damn-nough. Come on. Be inspiring. Do something cool. Inspire me."

"Uh."

"That was about as inspiring as a peanut."

"Peanuts are inspiring?"

"No."

"Um."

"THAT WASN'T INSPIRING EITHER."

"This is like a transcription of a lame phone call where one person is hopped up on stims and the other one's been smoking pot."

"This is my brain, stone cold sober. Welcome. Sit back. Have a banana. Bananas are good. Read some comics. There're a lot of 'em in here."

"I'm very sorry."

"About what? The comics?"

"No."

"Well what, then?"

"That your brain being fractured and spasmodic and scattered sixteen ways to Fort Lee is the excuse you use for not writing, or for not finishing anything you start."

"Aren't we not really supposed to get all personal and emo, here? Because you're totally making me go all emo, and it's utterly unattractive and probably no fun to read."

"You're the one writing, chickie."

"Don't I get an angel and a devil? One little personification for each shoulder? I think I'm being gypped, here. I've only got one attitudinal and resentful supergenius who's completely unhelpful."

"No I'm not. You're already at a thousand words."

"A thousand words of pure crap."

"You laid the disclaimer out at the beginning of this frankly quite staggering gesture. 'Most of this will be pure unadulturated crap. It will be craptastic. Unashamedly unedited crapnuts.' Something like that, anyway. I don't think anyone's expecting Hamlet or anything."

"So you're saying I'm worse than an infinite number of monkeys with an infinite number of typewriters?"

"If you want to look at it that way, sure."

"You're not even letting me be a passive-aggressive misinterpreter?"

"IT IS ILLEGAL."

"No it's not. In poor taste, maybe, but certainly not illegal."

"It should be. It damn well should be. There oughtta be a law."

"You're not talking like yourself anymore."

"That's because you're not writing me in character."

"I hate you."

"Good, we're even. Bitch."

"Oh my god! You're such a little punk! No wonder everyone hated you except little girls!"

"You were a little girl."

"I'm not little anymore! You're pissing me off!"

"No, you're pissing yourself off. AS I KEEP REMINDING YOU, because, LIKE I SAID BEFORE, it doesn't sink in the first five or six times, *you're the one writing this*. You're directing where it goes."

"It's not going anywhere!"

"That's because you're not directing it very well. In fact, I'd say you're directing it very poorly. In fact, you suck."

"HAH! This is inspiration how?"

"It's not inspiration, it's God's honest truth. You have the potential to be of the Not Suck, but right now? You suck. It has to do with, yes, new meds. It has to do with, yes, not sleeping. It has to do with being achy and whatever else you're making me complain for you about -- but all those? Those are only influences. Helpers with the suck. Suck enablers. The primary suck here is -- hey you past 1337, if you're interested -- the primary suck here is the fact that you stop before you finish. Once you finish today, you will get a major self esteem boost. It's like levelling up. Think of NaNo as an RPG where you level up every 1667 words. It might help."

"Okay, that was actually kind of inspiring. I'm not so mad at you any more."

"You're splitting words."

"I'm not avoiding contractions yet."

"You might want to finish after you eat something."

"Good plan."

---

"Okay. You have two hundred forty words left, as of the word forty just back there. How are you going to spend them? Are you going to spend them wisely?"

"Hell no! It's time for a MUSICAL INTERLUDE!"

"Oh, shit."

"I'm from a prior boot
My team and continuity are moot
The storyline won't move
'Cause we're all left alone in our prior boot.

And I can't remember the rest. I didn't write it down and I don't feel like making it up again. It was witty."

"I'm sure it was."

"It was very witty. And it scanned."

"Right."

"I can sing better than you."

"You don't even know if I can sing."

"I'm exerting Authorial Fiat. I can sing better than you."

"You're such a bitch. No wonder no one else will work for you."

"You call this work?"

"You were doing fine when you were writing me telling you what was wrong with you. Are you that insecure?"

"Are you supposed to be able to psychologically pick me apart like this?"

"Well, how else am I supposed to psychologically pick you apart?"

"Shut up and let me think."

"..."

"..."

"...this doesn't even count as filler, now."

"I'm just trying to get there, by hook or by crook."

"Crook is right, you cheating cheater."

"Are we there yet?"

"No."

"Are we there yet?"

"No. You're horrible."

"Are we THERE yet?"

"No! What are you, twelve?"

"No. Come on, are we /there/ yet?"

"Yes."