have tomato will nap

I'm sitting in my living room. I'm sitting on the couch with my feet up on the coffee table and my laptop in my lap. Fred is sitting on the couch across from me. Staring. I can't see him, because my screen blocks his little body from view. Hold on a second. . . .

Yup. He's still there. Staring. Intently. Unblinking as the Sphinx. He's not speaking, but since we're psychically connected I know what he's thinking. I can read his thoughts and his thoughts are these:

Pay. Attention. To. Me.

Throw. The. Ball.

I. Want. A. Tomato.

He wants a tomato, because I'm eating tomatoes. I've got a bowl of those tiny sweet ones. Delish. Fred loves them, too. But you don't really care about that, do you? I don't even care about that.

I'll be honest. I'm stalling. I have about eight ideas I'd like to write about all lined up on a couch in my head. Staring at me. Intently. Unblinking as the Sphinx. Vibrating with desire for the ripe tomato of my attention.

However, one is depressing, another emotionally wrenching, three are about work and then I've got this soapbox to stand on . . . one addresses religion and politics, but I'm just way too over it, while the last is about something that is as yet rather amorphous, but has to do with pubs and parks and Luddites and fear of weddings.

So this is a piece about nothing. About the uncomfortable in between of inspiration and realized creation. This is the part where I take a nap and hate myself just a little for not pushing through. And where Fred sighs deeply in that way of long-suffering pooches everywhere that says, If you're not going to write/work/paint, you should at least be taking me for a walk.

Sorry, Fred. Have a tomato.