Enforced Secret Joy #14 – Things That Distract Me From Writing

How in the world am I supposed to get any script work done when I look down to my left and see this? No, I did not flop those ears. Those ears flopped that way all on their own. Ginger Puppy kinda looks like a rabbit now, doesn’t she?







How in the world am I supposed to get any script work done when I look in front of me and see this view?









How in the world am I supposed to get any script work done when I know Battlestar Galattica 2.0 is downstairs with this guy waiting for me?

My brain starts spinning from half alcohol / half allergy med induced scenarios. Where Jamie Bamber carries me upstairs and lovingly feeds me spicy tuna sushi and Benedryl tabs and rubs my feet until I fall asleep. And then I wake up to find that he’s already taken the dogs for a walk, done shit patrol, and combed out their mats, and administered their flea medication and still made it back to bed in time to smooth back my hair with soft kisses on my forehead, murmuring what a wonderful writer I am in that American accent he’s got nailed down so hard that it’s impossible to accept he’s British.

“No, no, I gotta write,” I try to sit up, “There’s the rewrite, and the outline, and the other outline, and the play. I’m a writer. Writers write. I gotta write.” And he gently pulls me back to the pillow and whispers, “You need inspiration.”

And then he walks around without a shirt and a pair of blue jeans until I tell him stop. Which I will never do.

Dear God. Thank you for… half alcohol / half allergy med induced fantasies? That’s a little screwy, huh. I wonder if that’s allowed. I mean, you made Jamie Bamber, so thank you for that. And if all I’m doing with him in my Benedryl haze is the somewhat chaste PG antics above, does that fall into the Thou Shall Not Covet category? Wait, let me go check imdb. Shit, he’s married with a kid. Hell and damn. All the good ones are taken. Or they ignore me. Thanks, God. That’s all sorts of extra special goodness that we need to talk about later.

Thank you for floppy ears, for this view, for this housesitting gig. Thank you for me not working so I can write and procrastinate and write some more. And procrastinate some more. Thank you for understanding my particular cracked brand o humor. Thank for inspiration, in whatever form. And thank you for Benedryl. Thank you, thank you, thank you. Amen.