Most People Have An Angel and Devil On Their Shoulders. I have Igor and Bob

I kinda feel like being lazy today, but Igor and Bob won't have it.

It's not a normal sensation for me, so perhaps it's my body and/or psyche giving me a message?

Dunno.

I'm gonna roll with it though.

I'm gonna put that "always-on mentality" in a jar for a bit, stick it in the very back of my mental shelf, and do zilch today.

The funny thing is that before I decided to do nothing but be lazy, I had this raging battle between my ears.

Kinda like the Devil and the Angel on my shoulders...only it wasn't really a little devil and angel.

More like an Igor and Bob.

Igor said I didn't deserve it. He tapped on the inside of my head with his annoyingly long index finger, and I think he even mumbled and called me a "punk" under his breath. But it was hard to discern with that stupid toothpick hanging outta his dumb mouth.

Igor can be a dick.

Now I know why he doesn't have any damn friends.

Did he just call me a mommas boy?

Bob, the nice one, said, "Ricky, you very much deserve it." His words sounded like buttah and felt like it does when mom gives you a hug. You know. Nice. Warm. The kind of hug that makes you want to roll over back in bed for another thirty minutes and snooze.

Bob?

Bob is pretty cool.

He gets me.

He loves his ma too, tells me to ignore Igor, mumbles something about "sticks and stones," and that he thinks Igor is having a bad day. (How can Bob always be so dang nice?)

Then I remembered I need to write an essay today.

This essay.

The one you're reading now.

You see, I've made this promise to myself to sling some ink, put some fire in my pen, break out my Mac, and write every day. At least 600 words. Not sure why I settled on 600, but it seems to be some sort of sweet spot for me.

And as I remind myself of that promise, and also yearn to take the day and do nothing...yep...here comes Igor and Bob again. WTF?

Igor says, screw the essay. Don't pop the lid on my Mac. Put the pen down and step away. He's eyeballing the fridge with a cold pint of beer in it. And I gotta admit, so am I. (There's actually two pints of beer, but who's counting, right?)

And Bob?

What about Bob, you ask?

Well.

He asks if there's a slight chance I can do a little writing and THEN take some "Ricky time?" The beer will still be there, he hints. Maybe just like 250'ish words or so...kind of play it by ear and see if I can find a groove?

I think Bob secretly knows that once I start, I won't quit until I hit 600 words. He's smart like that, and it's like he reeeeeaaalllly knows me.

Maybe if I put the beers on ice? Then while they're getting extra chill, I can crack the Mac and see what emerges?

Weird, I feel like I'm talking to myself as I type this.

Igor is eyeballing Bob.

Bob sizes up Igor.

They both eyeball Ricky (however you do that from inside someone's head).

Ricky looks at the fridge.

I'm Ricky. Why do I keep 3rd personing myself?

Then back to my Mac, sitting on the table right in front of me.

For a moment, Igor and Bob go silent. It's like they go "poof" in my head, and all I'm left with is the sound of the clock...

Tick-tock...

And the sound of my thoughts.

It's like Bob and Igor have done all they could and have slinked away to the depths of my grey matter into some part of the brain that is only accessible lying on a leather couch or a surgery gurney.

The only person I would genuinely let down would be me, myself, and I.

Igor and Bob can fcku off.

Here's my essay.

Over 600 words.

(insert sound of beer opening here)

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