Of Muses and Men

I realise that I have been a horrible and neglectful blogger. I can envision you, my poor, lost public, waiting ever so anxiously for a word, a verse, or a sarcastic ditty. There you are at your computer, full of hope and optimism, only to be crushed and dismayed when you find the same darn entry from January 8th still on my blog. For this distress, my people, I apologize. Allow me to offer you a little something in the way of explanation. My creative perch from which I inspire you is, how shall I put it, a dung-heap. Seriously, my basement is, if not the worst place on earth, a very, and I mean very, close second. We have been under construction here for approximately a million years. The place is a disaster. All the furniture, even my desk and computer, is covered with clingy drywall dust. As annoying as that is, what I find to be even worse, is that the kids have completely abandoned any notion of putting their toys away, and for some reason, my family has decided that the floor makes a far better litter bin than the actual garbage can. In short, I hate it down here, and I spend as little time as possible in this area. Knowing that I have been avoiding my blog, I commented (complained) to my mother earlier in the evening that this particular environment wasn't exactly conducive to great, creative writing. Her response was something along the lines of "yes, but it's only your writing..." touche, mama. Touche.
Back in the day when I was a lovelorn, angst ridden teenager, I took my art and my creative environment very seriously. I set up for myself an elaborate backdrop of candles and classical music to inspire me as I furiously scribbled my musings on life, loss, and love. Reading over some of my melodramatic, metaphor drenched, existential crap, (er, I mean poetry) I have come to realise a couple of things. One, I was an obnoxious idiot. Two, I knew nothing about love, or loss, or life, so why the heck did I devote so many hours writing about them? I should have been out flirting with boys, and shopping, and dying my hair strange colours. That's what normal teenagers are supposed to. But no, I trapped myself in my dark bedroom with the likes of Heathcliffe, and Mr. Darcy, and the various characters from V.C. Andrews books dancing around in my head. Well, they didn't so much dance, as brood. These men were my muses; strong, angry, virile characters, longing for their lost loves and crushing any opponent who stood in their way.
Who are my muses now? Runny nosed children, who poop in their pants, and ram things with their heads, and spit their food right out on the floor. The candles are long gone, (fire hazard with this crew running around) and poor Chopin has been dumped for Rafi. As for Mr. Darcy, well, I kept him around. He's upstairs, snorting and snoring something fierce due to a nasty head cold. Believe it or not, I am actually quite grateful that I am experiencing the life I lead. I have a lot more to write about than my silly15 year old self ever did. Despite all the garbage, and snot, and inconvenient projectile vomiting, I wouldn't trade places with her for all the world. (But I sure would love to have that butt back.)
So what I'm trying to say is, I don't need the candles or gentle music, and I don't even need to be able to see the floor to keep you guys entertained. I just need my chaos inducing, house destroying, (begrudgingly) adorable children. And I've got em. For at least another 15 years.