She’s put one of her wigs on me and is making me play her piano. She’s barking at me to write songs, to create spontaneously, to open up my mouth and my body and become a conduit for the music. She wants me to write an entire rock-opera on the spot. Whenever I play a bum note or hesitate too long or flub the second rhyme of a couplet, she swats me in the face with a fly-swatter to show her displeasure.
She’s been swatting me a lot.
“When you make music or write or create, it’s really your job to have mind-blowing, irresponsible, condomless sex with whatever idea it is you’re writing about at the time.”
“I can’t, I’m shit, I have no talent,” I whine. “I have nothing to say as an artist, I’ve never had a single unique or original thought in my entire pathetic life.”
She swats me. That wasn’t in key.