Model of CreativityYou sit down at your computer and open up notepad. You type your name, hit enter, and then stare at the screen for five minutes. What the fuck? This sucks. Okay, stay calm, you can do this. Chill, just chill. You open up iTunes and put on the playlist from your last party to get you focused. That's better. With Ludacris blasting in the back, your mind narrows and you type the first sentence, then the second, then a third. You figure that you should use some punctuation, so you throw in your first period at the end of the line and then sprinkle some commas and that one that looks like a comma and a period getting it on. Hell yeah. Even punctuation wants to have some fun. Not Mr. Wilson though, the asshole.
You have seventeen minutes of uninterrupted flow. You've heard Dave Mathews talk about this kind of focus, but you never thought you'd experience it yourself. Amazed and proud, you reward yourself with a Natty Light. "Victory," you say, looking at the page of text you have written. Wait, wait, wait. You have three more of these to do? Hell no. Impossible. No way. No way.
The singer dove off the stage and crowd surfed in a sort of reverse funeral procession where the person being carried is the only one truly alive. Touching him I felt religious ecstasy and started speaking in tongues and requesting songs that didn't exist.
There's no easy way to put this, so I'll tell it like it is. Bouillon is died. He went missing before the weekend and yesterday I found his skeletonized remains at the bottom of the #3 soup vat during one of my swims. I thought the cream of mushroom soup had an especially nourishing taste, and a lot more clumps of fur and skin than usual.
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