Moose in the Kitchen

Chex Mix Bold Party Blend? Is crack. For weeks (or maybe just minutes, that’s how crack-like this stuff is) my dealer was on strike. Meaning Safeway inexplicably stopped carrying it. I was about two days away from concocting my own blend of cumin, garlic powder, and MSG and injecting in straight into my veins via a violently applied fork and specially-whittled drinking straw. I was in the grocery store tonight, searching for crackers that would hold the unhealthy amounts of cheese I pile on, when I found myself gazing disconsolately at the Chex Mix and trying – yet again – to will Bold Party Blend into existence among the disappointing original and caramel versions. Suddenly, the heavens opened up to light my spiky head with a beam of golden light, and crack whores with harps descended from the ceiling to sing R Kelly lyrics.

There was my crack.

And it was on sale.

I loaded six bags into my cart and was reaching for more before my mania registered in the dim recesses of my brain, the ones that weren’t screaming at me to forget such societal restrictions as cash registers and rip the bag open with my teeth and pour the contents over my head. I looked at the six bags, picked up four of them, put them back on the shelf and walked down the aisle in a dignified manner, pointedly ignoring the crack whores hissing and ripping the strings from their harps to hurl at my head.

In other news, I’m totally neurotic. Right now I’m surrounded by writing books (2, for inspiration), multiple novels (4, for different inspiration), empty bags of Chex Mix, and staring at a document labelled “Plot.” On that document is less a plot than an autobiographical rendering of two years of my life in list form. I’m not Paris Hilton, nor did I invent the flux capacitor, so this really isn’t going to fly. I keep referring to the many resources I have gathered ’round, sure they will provide me with a plot* or at least means of getting one. Instead, they breathe heavily and whisper, “You got yourself into this. You get yourself out.” Then they suggest more Chex Mix.

I just realized that I don’t know the definition of neurotic. Is it odd that someone whose defining quality is neurotic can’t actually define neurotic? If you held a gun to my head and yelled, “Define neurotic before your gray matter decorates the ceiling!”, I wouldn’t know what to say. I’d eventually scrunch up my eyes and say, “Prepared?” Then you would shoot me and I’d be dead and all my delicious neuroses would pass, unsung, from the world.

I’m going to sing about my neuroses to the Chex Mix now.

~~~

* Hi again! Have you written (or tried to write) a novel? If you have insight into that sticky start it/plot it/keep it going beyond 20 pages problem, I would love to hear your thoughts. As long as your thoughts aren’t “Stop procrastinating and go back to your plotting, wench!” or “Why are you trying to write a novel when you should be looking for a job?”