I never get phone calls.

Never. I have to call someone if I want to talk. It gets lonely, you know? The last person that called me was, hm, Sage.

On Sunday.

Today is Friday, in case no one noticed. I have no plans for this weekend, so I will probably end up being dragged to the bike store. Sigh

I need a life.

My eternal muse is a woman from Los Angeles

Francesca Lia Block.

Sure, the name may mean nothing to you now, but go read a copy of I Was a Teenage Fairy or Girl Goddess #9 and your mind will soon change. The woman is a visionary, a literary genius that, in my opinion, far outstrips J.K. Rowling. She is a master of fantasy and the unreal yet oh so real, while still managing to set all of her stories in her hometown and make it work. I envy her on such levels, it has managed to go beyond deadly, this sin of mine. I want to write like her.

Have you ever read something that moves you so much, you want to emulate it? You ever want to uproot your entire life and follow the route that the work details instead? You ever walked down a road after you'd just finished, contemplating just ending it all, because you know how the story ends, and that there isn't any more of it? That's her. That's Franceseca Lia Block. Her books, her stories are just so moving and enlightening and breathtaking and terrifying all at the same time, it makes your mind go numb. I want to write something like that.

My muses are fickle, and they only inspire what they want to inspire. They're addicted to comic books and movies and predictable happy endings, and while that works great for Disney, I need something more. I think I may have outgrown my muses. Kodachrome and her need for abusive romances, Mirrorimage and her obsession with comic crackery, Dragonmage and his magical ability to screw up every plotline I've ever worked with. I think that I'm fed up with them all. I need something new. Kodachrome can stay, if only to keep me grounded through mental abuse and bad jokes, but the rest must go.

I want a new muse, with sunlight in her hair and a rainbow shining through his wings. I want a faerie muse, to help me with all my new pieces. I want a tattered girl that was ignored as a child. I want my inspiration, and I want it now.

I disagree with People

It's been almost a month since my last post, and now I'm here raving about People magazine. The list of this year's sexiest men alive has just been released, with Matt Damon riding the top spot. No, normally, I don't give a damn about what People thinks, but Matt Damon? His name can spell damn for a reason, people! He's icky! Now, Steven Strait? Purr, that's what I'm talking about! Sexiest man alive, indeed. The youngest guy on the list of 15 I saw was 31! Ew.

So, yeah. People magazine can bite me if they'd rather stare at Damn boy's wrinkles than Steven's sexy eyes that actually seem to smolder as you look into them, even in photographs...

I think I have a nosebleed.