My inner critic won't speak to me. He sits on my desk with his head in his lap, weeping. The Skull of the Muse keeps telling him jokes, but he won't laugh. The glass rabbit, who I think represents my feminine side, keeps telling me in German that I need to feed the critic. She says that he will die if I don't write something soon. Quite a dilemma.
Can I survive without the inner critic? Sure, he trashes my work and makes me doubt and question everything, but he also keeps me from hoisting confusing and unpolished drek upon the unsuspecting reading public.
Can I survive without writing? Sure, if I don't mind becoming an alcoholic flesh-eating zombie. Such a choice.
The Dream Lizard is no help either. Last night he had me trying to impress a bunch of skateborders by bragging about my clothes only to realize that I was dressed like Herb Tarlek from WKRP. I know there is a message in there somewhere but the allegory escapes me.