The Machine Gun

When I’m excited about something, I make machine-gun noises with my mouth. If I’m really stoked, I’ll cup my hands to my mouth to make the noise louder, and then move my head from side to side in a sweeping motion as if I’m spraying the room with machine-gun fire. I actually imagine vases and shit exploding, stuffing from throw pillows flying into the air.

Shggtt Shggtt Shgggggggggggttt. Shggggttt.

I do this every time I finish a resume. To be honest, this is how I know I’m done with a resume: because I start making machine gun noises.

I wonder if it was the same for Van Gogh or Mozart or JD Salinger. If not machine gun noises, it had to be something: the body telling the mind to stop.

That’s the only way. When it’s good, when the muse is in full swing, the mind is gone. Or perfectly there, however you want to look at it.

So, the signal, the stopping mechanism, it’s gotta be something unconscious and automatic.

It could be anything.

For me, it’s a machine gun.

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