Y

Y.

I yearn for the day when I can just write any time, anywhere. I have to create just the right atmosphere to write. So I come to a nice cafe, ready to focus in and come up with something that means something to me and will hopefully mean something to somebody else. I order my coffee, take a seat in the comfy chair, take a sip. I'm ready.

Then Gloria Estefan decides to go and turn the beat around.

And now Cyndi Lauper's least enjoyable song is blaring in my ear, and it seems she may just go on all through the night.

What ever happened to playing some jazz music? Isn't that what a cafe is supposed to do?

Alright. Maybe I can work with some Peter Gabriel.

I'm just too darned distracted by media. I suppose this is why I do well in monasteries.

Y.

Yyy....

Friggin' Michael McDonald. I wish there was a mountain high enough to keep his weird vocals from my ears right now.

Okay. Y.

Y. Y. Wwwiiiiieeee....

Yep. Can't think of a thing. Perhaps if Melissa Etheridge came to my window and whispered an idea, I could write about it. But then she'd have to stop yammering long enough to let me write.

There's a whole big world out there, with many things beginning with Y. I'm a writer. I can write about one of them. If only Rascal Flatts would shut up for one minute. What hurts the most is that horribly annoying build-up-to-the-chorus part.


I suppose we've come nearly full circle, now that Phil Collins is singing Cyndi Lauper.

Y.

I yearn for the year when the yammering ends.

I promise, Z will be better.