How long can I stare at a blank page before my eyes start wandering in every other direction but the computer screen? The cursor blinking every second with nothing to say other than “bitch what the fuck are you waiting for?”
THE ANSWER IS INSPIRATION, YOU DICK.
I’m not sure why, but when I look for inspiration, I look to my Kangaroo shelf. For whatever reason this assortment of Kanga’s gives me the energy and the desire to get something written. Today they weren’t working so well for me. I looked slightly above them to a different shelf, where there lay a small plush horse that was given to me some time ago.
I was no more than 5 years old when my Grandfather and his girlfriend had returned from a vacation. As their job as Grandparents required, they came back bearing gifts for my sisters and I. They gave me a stuffed Leprechaun toy. To be completely honest, I think it was a stuffed version of the Fighting Irish mascot.
98% sure I lost it that same day, if not by that weekend. Either way it was definitely gone, so I did what any young child would do.
I threw a giant ass tantrum until they promised to buy me something else.
SIDENOTE: I’m now realizing how often I did this, and how awful it was. So, to my mother, father, step parents, grandparents both living and not, and to any aunts/uncles/cousins who may have seen these tantrums, I am so sorry. While we’re at it, I owe an apology to the general public because as I’m sure you could have guessed, these tantrums almost always took place in public. What can I say? I live for an audience.
They bought me this stuffed horse. It’s reddish brown, with white between the eyes, a white mane/tail, and black hooves. Inside the body of the horse is a squeaker, that excited my dogs way too much. The horse came with a pink collar, that I had insisted be cut off because pink was a “girls color.” I named him Donkey. I loved him more than anything.
When I was a little older, my Grandfather passed away after battling a long illness. It was then that I came upon Donkey again. He was worn, had a hole in his body, and didn’t really squeak anymore. My stepmom sewed him up, and he was as good as new. I took this as a sign that as long as I had Donkey, my Grandfather would always be with me. Even now, I look at the Donkey, and I feel him here. Whether that feeling is a shiver down my spine, or the smell of decaffeinated coffee, he’s here.