It is the night before my anthro final. Am I reviewing the major concepts we went over this semester? Rereading the material I wasn’t clear on the first time around? Memorizing the characteristics of each mode of production?
No. For the past five hours, I’ve been writing a short story. For what it’s worth, the story is my final project for creative writing, but I had another week to write it. What does it mean when you are your own brain’s prison bitch?
I tried to ignore the impulse, but whenever I so much as LOOKED at my notes, I’d hear bits of dialogue running through my head. My eyes would be reading about the concept of female personhood in Egypt, but my brain would be telling itself “Hey, I can tie in the local legend of the werewolf with the main character’s feelings of alienation and repression! I just used the word “repression!” I am SUCH a fucking genius! People are going to fall at my host body’s FEET when I publish this work of unrelenting, supreme, … coolness!”
This happens, without fail, every single fucking time I have to write something or do something important tomorrow. That painting I did of the lounge? Pre-empted a whole lot of fieldnotes and response papers. See that online comic I have? Ever wonder why my grades in high school sucked more donkey dick than a bunch of drunk teenagers in Tijuana?
In short, fuck you, inspiration. You ruin all hope I have of being able to afford a third pair of pants some day.
