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Herside Story Chords
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Whether it was getting his job at the University, falling in love with bike riding, meeting his wife or ing a band that would eventually open up for the Ramones at the old Mississippi Nights, Chekoudjian has been pretty fortuitous regarding major life events. Born and raised in St. But he came into computers when they were first introduced, at a time when nobody had a computer background.

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Years old: 24
Sexual preference: Man
Hobbies: Drawing

But then it darts to a cabinet across the room, unhooks the door, and unleashes an avalanche of old brushes, cans, and paint tubes. Otherwise, expect me on your doorstep. The tampon circles the Muses with its string. You think of the tampon—Lux—and of how it—she—has taken care of you.

It gestures to the paintings. You spray it with Raid. The tampon follows you, jumps up on your desk, and leans toward you, placatory.

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It stops near one oversized volume and gently taps its spine. You watch her positively glow. But always, when your fingers have once again failed to wrestle any words from the keyboard, you stomp away from your desk, only to find the tampon snuffling around your feet—scrunched up, with its string tucked underneath itself like a scolded pet. Next, the tampon engages in a cleaning spree.

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Which you personally rate as one of the most bogus lines known to humankind. You inspect the shelves and closets and cupboards where it likes to occupy itself.

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Usually, it hooks itself over your computer keyboard or dangles from the cracked vase on your bookshelf, but, very often, it drapes itself over the only possession in your life that still gives you pleasure—a framed print of a Chardin still life with peaches. As if it might have feelings and concerns—maybe even expectations—apart from your happiness.

Most of the paintings are turned toward the wall so as not to fade in the light, but one faces outward—the last still life you painted of a blue, fluffy feather in an empty fish bowl—and the tampon leans toward it intently, seemingly transfixed.

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It flicks its string urgently at the doorway, as if to say, What are you hiding in there? You run to your studio and find the tampon crouched in the middle of the floor, the key at its side, staring up at your empty easel and the dozens of abandoned canvases that clutter the room. End of story. Mary Cool lives and writes in Crown Heights, Brooklyn, where she occupies an apartment with her husband, two cats, and pet crayfish.

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She sits up in the matchbox, revived, and repositions herself, reclining against the Eiffel Tower—a Muse in her glory. She opens the door wide, walks to your bedroom, and returns with a fabric-padded matchbox. A few minutes later, you get another piece of paper, two organic energy bars, and a baggie of thinly sliced apple.

In fact, it sort of seems to understand your situation—which it should, given the threatening voics you get daily. Your tampon, however, seems not at all intimidated by these voics—it simply hops up onto the phone and discreetly taps the delete button. You have to paint. I started too late.

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You hurl it out the window into traffic. And for the first time, you touch it—gently patting its soft, fuzzy tip. Besides, there are more preposterous things in the world. I forfeited my talent. It wraps itself in its string, hesitant and rather embarrassed. You realize that it does expect something—it sincerely wants you to tell it everything about yourself. Slowly, carefully, you open the drawer and discover that it is completely empty.

This fills you with resentment and righteous indignation—the tampon was the one that invited itself into your life, after all.

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Even on those days when you decide to neglect your manuscript in favor of watching Monster House re-runs, the tampon does not abandon you. After all, you were the latchkey kid of an ambitious single Mom—the kind who kept her desk well stocked with books and paper and her favorite feather quill pens, but forgot to fill the pantry or drop off the laundry.

No, what you loved first was how these painters pursued light and form with such devotion that when they set their brushes down they had seen everything—every possible nuance and gradation and perspective—and transcended all of it.

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The tampon looks rather peaked and frail. You call your mother through the door, and when she arrives, you ask her if Lux is strong enough to visit the studio. No one has the right to make you feel like a loser other than you—especially not your tampon. But they laughed me out of the Art Students League.

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She blogs weekly about learning to write at captivatedaudience. In addition to having a short story published at hogglepot. The click of her heels, like her voice, is measured and resolved. You take in the fullness of its red-spotted tip, its yellowed fuzz, and burst out laughing. It never fights back.

Author's notes

Your mother carefully hands you the matchbox and you arrange it between the Eiffel Tower and the bowl. Follow Scott on twitter scottbarkanand visit scottbarkanmusic.

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You never asked for its concern, its loyalty. It leaves out simple recipes for you to discover. According to your art teachers, she was right.

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Then you start to paint. Things start to shine even—doorknobs and drawer handles and tiles positively sparkle.

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She is. You try to nudge her into the usual verbal lashings. Now eat these, or no dessert. It sneaks online at night and orders from Fresh Direct.

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You can only neglect something for so long. Photograph by R. Perhaps this has to do with the fact that every time you try to throw your final tampon in the garbage, you come out of the shower or kitchen or laundry fifteen minutes later to find it haunting your desk.

And about five other ateliers. You no longer feel like you need a bottle of hand sanitizer everywhere you go. It seems to want the best for you, to be a faithful companion. Instead, it sits on your shoulder and gently tickles the back of your neck with its string. It wraps itself in moist towlettes and wipes off dirty countertops and window sills and fixtures—it even dislodges the crumbs from your keyboard.

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You feel a little sick. For more, visit rjcaputo. You begin your search with the Italian Renaissance book, thinking maybe the tampon is tissue-papered between the s like a pressed flower. You turn to stare, your mouth open, while it maintains its faithful—almost pious—pose in the presence of the image.

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Even the evidence of its former hygienic function seems faded, as if it has been rapidly bleached. Caputo is a photographer from Queens, NY. He has also done promotional work for a of recording artists.

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You take out an old book of still lives that remains in the studio. You need to start working so she can get up her strength. Being a Muse, I mean. One day you find the tampon on the floor of the hall, peering through the crack under the door to your sealed-off studio. Open the door and take a look, if you want. She has always looked and sounded like a young, elegant Katharine Hepburn, while you are a goofy-looking, floppy-haired Ellen DeGeneres.

It shuffles away and drops wearily to the floor. What did I tell you about this room? The next morning, you get three voics in less than thirty minutes.

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You even try grinding it in the garbage disposal. Scott is now touring to support Flightless Bird, his sophomore solo effort, downloadable at scottbarkan. It occurs to you what the tampon is saying. After years as an in-demand sideman, having his guitar playing and songwriting featured on national television, and leading numerous guitar oriented instrumental projects, Scott struck out as an acoustic-based solo artist.

And Grand Central Academy. More info and terrible blogging can be found at erikaswyler. My Muse? You cross back to the still life once more and remove the matchbox, while leaving her in-scene. It even folds paper napkins into pleasing animal shapes for dinner service. What do you want? Not because of the color de or composition or masterful brushstrokes—that appreciation came later.

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