Oo, oo, child, things are gonna get easier

[Last night at the writer's studio wasn't easy. I'm trying to write a funny, scathing essay about the Rita Moreno Experience and some of the insights into celebrity and the false sense of entitlement people buy themselves. You know...up, fun stuff. Anyway, it wasn't coming, I was tired and cranky, and I heard a distant baby crying.]

[Shut up, infant. I know you, you're always screaming in my ear. Finally, the distraction was so total that I finally decided to find out what the damned baby wanted. I started writing lists of what needs it had that weren't being met. I wrote pages and pages, with ideas for solutions. By the end of the first hour I'd scribbled a lot, and I was exhausted. I tried to keep going during the second hour, but like at those Art History classes in the Isla Vista Theatre in 1988, I couldn't keep my eyes open.* The wailing had stopped.]

[I repaired to the parlor (the writer's studio is held at this fabulous bed and breakfast that used to be a mansion) and dozed for the balance of the hour. I awoke as the other writers were leaving, there was a soft rain falling, and Violet drove me home in her Batmobile.]

[I feel better today. Few solutions have been implemented, but if you're going to be full of shit, sometimes it helps to systematize it, and shut that inner child the hell up.]

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[*No, it wasn't the subject; I adore Art History. I still have the textbook and flip through it sometimes. It was the professor.]