CBMused

Where do you go when you want to hide from yourself? Do you look in all places, search for a safe asylum, a place that lets you breathe, that lets you feel, or simply lets you be?

And when you’ve found a sanctuary, and turned it into your third space, and revelled in its comfort and peace, you’ve suddenly grown weary of it, and it begins to lose its lustre, where do you go to hide from your from that faded haven?

Where do you go to be yourself?

Morning breaks and stirs you out of your sleep. You float into a habitual awareness; time, space, location, the day of the week. Your eyelids flutter open to muted thoughts only to close and shut down the daily tedium. You pull the covers up and turn to one side, flipping your thoughts into a daydream. Reality surrenders with surprising ease. A story is at the helm of your vivid imagination and you float with the tide as you ride the wave of your fictitious world. You finally awake, as you always do, but today something awakens inside.

Blogs provide a medium for the self-expression of individuals who are writers, wannabe writers and would-be writers. Who among us, if given half a chance would not make the blog to book progression? I’m no different. I have a couple of writing projects under my metaphorical belt, and two other ideas looming in the background once the current work in progress reaches the next milestone.

Yet the satisfaction of seeing my name in print or following in revered footsteps would only provide meagre rewards. What would make me leave my day job for a paid writing career is the burning desire to pen my creativity for money, to see my name next to flashy headlines and words strung together like these…

to give spell check the old heave-ho…

to connect serious photographs to stereotypical headlines…

and to offer my creative services to produce spam emails like these…

Yet I can do better.

I can create an editorial from the spam snippets above, sell it to a reputable publication and make a killing.

3 More Inches of Fire in Crotch Shot at 3 Meters
By Cléa B. Mused
April, 15, 2008 02:37 am

A man in his thirties has reported that he has successfully shot fire in his crotch at close range. Joaquim (not his real name) never agreed to feel like a loser. He had the burning desire to feel more connected to the person. His only hindrance was that his little soldier was three inches too short and he never gave his partner the experience she deserves. He felt it was his duty, to feel his male superiority grow in inches, to become more attractive to the ladies(!) sic, and give them more force and super-dimension to rock their socks off, if indeed socks turned them on.

So he took the plunge and clicked on the link in his email box. And finally, he was able to release the fire in his crotch.

“I blew her mind!” Joaquim said in an exclusive interview to this publication. “She saw the fire in my eyes when I told her that I can shoot 3 meters!”

It was a true godsend to his little soldier of love.

After all, how hard can it be?

Credits: Screen captures of the quotations are taken from their sources but not referenced. The article in blockquote is my original work.

Martini Moments…… While Looking through the Contemplative Glass

1. Some thoughts are best not spoken, but ensuring they’re quietly understood can be an art form.

2. While some things clearly belong in the past, memories continue to live, becoming part of the present, and the future’s past.

3. Those who are drawn to popularity for popularity’s sake fail to see the essence of what’s beneath it.

4. Music stirs the cauldron of emotion while lyrics feed the soul.

5. When I peer through the contemplative glass and see my reflection, I invariably want it to sparkle as if I’m looking through a Martini glass.

I open the glass door and turn the tap on. The water takes the obligatory minute or so before it reaches my preferred temperature. I step into the shower.

I wash my hair with a green apple shampoo. I apply conditioner that contains fructose and glucose and smells of coconut. I lather my body with vanilla-scented soap. I exfoliate my skin with a shea body scrub.

I dry myself then step onto the bath mat.

I glide on a peach-smelling deodorant. My face cream is like a rich mango gelato I could eat. I smear almond body butter all over my skin.

I get dressed.

I spray on perfume with spice and floral undertones.

And I feel like a fruit salad.

Marketers may believe that fruit-scented products would make me feel more feminine, but are men attracted to women who smell like fruit?