My Muse Loves a Full Bladder

...or how the Muse comes to me when I'm most vulnerable.

My Muse either hates me or is big into waterworks. Or perhaps both, yes—I think it's both. All I know is that every time I come into the bathroom to piss, she's waiting—springing to attention like a lonely dog—Is it time? Huh?! Are we going now? Are we?!

She appears as a busty Marie Antoinette with Pegasusian wings and Nosferatu fingers. She's in the corner of the room, her back pressed against the wall. As I unzip, she looks on with unblinking eyes and a perverted smile—panting heavily with cartoonish anticipation, one hand clutching her writhing bosom. 

The moment my stream hits the water, she voraciously lunges forth, bracelets dangling from her outstretched Karloffian arms—giggling as she presses her moist lips against my ear. She smells like damp leather and cherry ChapStick. The cold pearls in her hair jostle as she seductively strokes my back.

Amidst the scatological roar of excretion and the fizzing of proteinous bubbles, she lustfully whispers precious nuggets. She can't contain herself.

Vulnerability, it seems, makes her generous.

Without fail, I'm enlivened—gripped by the a-ha! momentum of sudden discovery. I become possessed, repeatedly mumbling the imparted idea aloud, chanting it monotonously while rocking up and down—heel, toe, heel, toe—impatiently pleading with Yahweh to cease the stream: "I'll never hydrate again! Just make it stop! Please! Let me go! I need this!" 

You know what? Come to think of it, she's most likely some type of sadist—growing giddy as she dangles carrots in front of a famished equine boy, yoked to porcelain by his own urine. The risk of being forgotten turns her on—only enjoying her altruism when it’s likely that my puny human memory will jettison what she's so graciously given. 

She's the rebelliously insatiable girlfriend tickling your crotch under the table while you talk to her father. She smiles slyly—unflinchingly staring down her pop as she jostles your member. Maybe you're just a toy to her. Perhaps you're only there because she hates her father. In the end, if push comes to shove, you're the one getting a fist in the face.

She loves watching me squirm and mumble to myself like a schizoid bum, occasionally pausing to scream, "HEY, SIRI!" in a desperate and always futile attempt to activate my phone. She cackles villainously as I make a fool of myself, moving heaven and earth for a chance to jot down some crumb she absently dredged from a deep crevice of her purse—simple refuse I’d mistaken for enlightenment. I flail about wildly, prematurely cutting off the stream and haphazardly zipping my fly as unshaken drops of piss blossom in my underwear, becoming cold against my thigh as I dash to my desk, scribbling in the margin of the nearest scrap. All the while, she's doubled over in laughter, gossiping with her girlfriends: "Oh my god, Iris!!—like, for real, you wouldn't believe this guy, like, oh my gosh—just look, hahaha, just LOOK at this poor grub! Highkey, soOoOooo desperate!"

Maybe this is how it is: anyone crazy enough to call themselves a creative is assigned a Muse. Managerial muckety-mucks appear at your Muse-to-be's office cubicle, nonchalantly tossing them a manilla envelope containing your name, address, and photo: "Heya sweetie, gotta new one for ya. Go down there and kick the tires on this n00b—see how serious this guy is, will ya? Don't be afraid to fuck around with him…figure out if he's wasting our time." 

With so many creatives and so few good ideas, Muses act as the gatekeepers, the invisible hands. Through their gifts, they are constantly testing and judging. Will I drop what I'm doing when my Muse says so? Will I stop mid-stream and dash to my desk? If I zip up too quickly and drops of urine piddle onto the tile, do I stop and clean first?

I imagine my Muse reporting to her supervisor:

"Yeah, I did the ol' urine drop routine—the subject disinfected the tiles before preserving the gift—it was a pretty good one, too! He just had to clean—dude's an unserious hack if I ever saw one—definitely not a real artist. He damn sure ain't Picasso, of that I'm crystal—you remember that guy?! Haha—those were the days! This one time—ah! this is too perfect!—one time, I strolled up to that cueball fuck on the john—mid-shit, mind you!—and simply whispered, ‘Guernica’—before I even finished, the little dude lept off the bowl—no wiping!—and got right to work, trousers around his ankles the whole time! Now, that's a true creative!"

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Before you go…

• Has your Muse ever given you a choice nugget when you’re ill-prepared?

• What are your go-to strategies for recording and cataloging new ideas?

• When/where is your Muse most likely to visit you?

Let me know in the comments!