I went out for a bike ride the next morning, and as usual, the thoughts started buzzing in my head like a hive of Africanized bees who'd just had their nest whapped by an errant baseball from the neighbor's yard.
This is how I write - with angry bee thoughts that eventually form that big cartoon arrow aimed at some hapless passerby. Which would be you if you are reading this.
The bees settled down and started to form some kind of Shakespearian soliloquy about the leaden gray skies and the indiscretions of my youth weighing heavily upon my body like a sodden woolen mantle. I think I stuck some thorns or nails in there somewhere for extra effect. And something about the price of that youthful joyride being worth every penny.
And then the hysterical cackling of my inner fifty-something critic ( I think her name is Marge) started. She was laughing so hard she must've peed herself a little. You know how that sphincter thing goes when you're over 50. After the last chorus, my chagrined bee thoughts gave up their aspirations for flowery creative writing and gave me this...
"So I am out riding my bike this morning, collecting dust all over my sweaty body like a giant cornmeal crusted slab of pasty white catfish, and it feels like a pack of rabid badgers is using my body for an amusement park."
I don't think there were any sphincters or rabid badgers in Hamlet.