The blunders of man will end with me.
Oh the frivelous little things you say, darling, you simply must write them down! Write, write, write away my little turtle tart.
I am a conceited tart! A conceited tart!
Oh you do worry so, oh you simply do worry so. Don’t worry! Why worry?
A conceited tart I say, woman!
Woman? Oh my, don’t talk dirty.
A conceited tart, that looks a treat but turns to sourdust in the mouths of anyone but the tart.
A tart with a mouth? Well I’d gobble myself up.
Yes that’s precisely the point! I’d gobble myself up into oblivion! Oblivion. Where I will drown in my own seed.
Oh you do talk salaciously when I’m trying to gather up your self confience. Quite salacious.
Far from salacious, it will be a catastrophe of megalomanic proportions.
Such words, such interesting use of phrase, you belong on the stage!
No the stage will be my undoing. You think me a mess now, wait until I hear an audience groan when I step on stage. It will unwind me, my spool will runeth over.
Okay, so why won’t you write. You shan’t have to show it to a soul.
I have learned no lessons in my life, all the great writers in the world come with divine writing forged in the fiery torments of strife.
Now that’s a bit too wordy but you could always get an editor for a second opinion of your writing.
I know writers who won’t show anyone a thing and you only know they’re writers because you see them on the blue bird complaining of the block.
On the blue bird? Such fanciful phrasing.
Stop complementing me! Stop it! I can’t bare it! I’m a frivelous little man with frivelously little to say.
You seem to be dreadfully afraid of yourself, of becoming a sort of narccisus. I don’t see that in you at all.
Ah no, but In my mind, I see thoughts that compare, that judge, that raise myself above so many.
That can’t be true. You belittle youself too much out loud. It can even get a little embarassing.
Ah, it’s manipulation! I preempt any criticism! To be my own worst critic is my only respite.
Thought Vacations 