Today I came to the rather amusing realization that many of my best pieces of writing are the products of premenstrual emotional instability. It sounds ridiculous and absurd, I know, and probably makes the immature and/or ovary-less readers (the two may or may not fall within the same category - my research has been inconclusive) uncomfortable, but it is the gosh-darn truth. I cannot write unless I am full of feelings, and I certainly cannot write goodly unless these feelings have filled me to the point where they have piled above my heart, spilled through my shoulders, and found their way down my arms to the tips of my pen-bearing fingers. Alcohol, I admit, has a way of sparking inspiration (beer the humorous and witty, wine the sentimental and teary), but the best cure for writer's block is by far...wait for it...out-of-whack hormones.
But alas, while it is indeed that time of month, my rude visitor has brought no passions to my heart's surface, only Advil-begging, can-I-curl-up-in-my-bed-and-die, why-wasn't-I-born-a-boy cramps. And so I sit here at 4:00 am, listening to the soundtrack of Breakfast at Tiffany's (for those who understand the reference in my new blog layout, I give you my heart - unless you are a wild thing!), trying with no avail to summon the world of Holly Golightly, wretchedly hoping to be inspired the way Paul Varjak was. Feed me, feed me, I beg out my dark windows. Feed me your pain, your love, let me drink your tears and kiss your smiles. What are the things that you find most beautiful? I want to know so that I can be just that. Tell me your dreams - no, tell me your secrets! The latter tends to be more interesting, though in my own pathetic heart the two hide within the same chamber. Let me swallow your pills, let me take your bullet, please understand I want to walk in your high heels, your business shoes, your sandals, your sneakers! I am not asking for much, I am just bored and uninspired and wondering why I find slender fingers and impeccable grammar to be attractive qualities in men, or if it was wrong of me to pour only half a glass of milk because I was too lazy to throw the carton out, which I'd have to do if I finished it. A day in your life, a piece of your strife, that is all I want, really - if an alcoholic asked for an innocent Irish coffee, you'd give it to him, wouldn't you, oh wouldn't you?
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