January 22nd, 2005

Bill Hicks

The Muse Moves Forward

"How are you doing with this?" the Muse asked me, her voice sounding fuzzy and digitized from the cell phone she was calling me with.

"On a scale of..?"

"Hmm. On a scale of one to a hundred."

I thought a moment. "I'd say about sixty-eight percent of me wants to break something, drink to oblivion, and wake up once they've found a cure for life."

"Is that better or worse than you'd expected?" she asked.

"It's better, actually," I lied. "But not by much."

"You're completely full of shit," she said.

"Yes. Yes, I am. I'm also a little irrational. It'll pass."

"It had better."

"Call me tomorrow, Muse," I said. "And please don't use a cellphone. I know you hate them as much as I do."

"Sorry," she said. "It was the only phone he had."

"Goodnight, Muse," I said, and hung up.
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