Feelin’ Uninspired.

17 Nov

You ever feel uninspired? It sucks–especially when you’re attempting to create stuff. Writer’s block is horrible, but I think that’s different from uninspired. With writer’s block, you want to write really bad, but for whatever reason, can’t finish. I’m to the point recently where a part of me doesn’t even want to write anymore. What do I do? I need to go find a motivational speaker and force him to motivate me.

My first and only stop is with renowned motivational speaker, Zig Ziglar.

"Zig Ziglar: Motivation Through Pointing."

"Zig Ziglar: Motivation Through Pointing!"

I arrive at Zig’s home and sit at the kitchen with his wife. As I wait for Zig, she puts out two mugs, one in front of me and one in front of an empty seat across the table. She takes an antique tea pot and fills each mug with hot, fresh tea. She then lifts one of the mugs and puts two straws in the one in front of me.

“I only need one straw, ma’am,” I say.

“That’s why I gave you just one.” She takes a sip from her tea.

Just then Zig comes in wearing some tan slacks, a white oxford shirt and suspenders. He’s also wearing a cowboy hat.

“Zig!” I yell, standing to shake his hand.

“Oh, enough of that,” he says, smiling, and pulls me in for a hug, slapping me on the back and shaking me by the shoulders.”Good to see you, my boy. I haven’t seen you since you were on that show with Ryder.”

“Excuse me, sir?” I ask, taking my seat. Zig leans forward and takes a sip from the straw opposite my own in what I guess is “our” mug.

“Ryder. Ryder Strong,” he says, “I haven’t seen you since you and him were on Boy Meets World.

“Jesus Christ,” I say under my breath. My shoulders slump and I let out a big sigh. “I’m not Ben Savage. People have told me we look alike, but I was never on that show.” Zig leans back from the mug, removes my straw, and throws it to the ground.

“Then who the hell are you? Fred?”

“No. I’m not Fred Savage, either. I’m Kyle Irion, from the internet. IronKyle.com?” A light bulb goes off in Zig’s head.

“Myra, pour this boy another cup of tea.” He gestures with his hand and she brings me another mug. “Thank you Myra,” he says, waving her away. I reach out for the cup. “Hold on a second,” he says. Zig leans forward and spits into my mug. “You can drink that.”

“Why did you do that?!”

“My grand children told me about your site. It’s smut! Filth! Is it true that in one entry you referenced turning your genitals into a liquid-metal Brett Favre?”

“Well, yea, but that was j–“

“Brett Favre is an American hero! Do you understand me?! A hero!” He begins to tremble with anger–trembling so much that his tea spills over and burns his hand. “Ah, damn! Did you do that?!” He points down to his hand then to me.

“Wha–what?! No! No, I swear!” I jerk upright, tripping over my chair.

“You burned my hand! You used your youth to do it!” It’s clear to me that Zig has lost his mind.

“Zig, look! A socialist!” I point behind him. When his back is to me I make a run for it. As I drive away, I see Zig chasing me on horseback. Running for my life from that crazy old buzzard really filled me with the rush I was looking for.

So now I sit, newly inspired, eager to create. Thanks, Zig.

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