Who let the butterfly drive the Ferrari?
Who's going to clean this mess up?
I’m not sure if this is something you’ve experienced.
But there are times when my excitement, my bursting joy to be alive, to discover, to share to create?
All this stuff?
All of this gets so great that creative butterflies come bursting from my gut with such turbo charged velocity, they’re difficult to keep under control.
Fast butterflies are messy.
Fast butterflies don’t live very long.
Most ordinary butterflies only last between two and four weeks.
The ones vaulting from my stomach - the fast ones?
They’re a bit more reckless.
I’m filled with James Dean butterflies. Janis Joplin butterflies. Jimi Hendrix butterflies.1
You get the idea.
They are really creative and really short lived butterflies.
You making a sad face?
Don’t feel too bad.
They’re fucking bugs.
Ideas and excitement are bugs.
And no matter how messy they are when they die, they weigh less than three quarters of a gram at the most.
The’re easy to clean up.
It’s easy, when we’re bursting with excited creative butterflies to dispair as they get mashed by the millions into the front of a tractor trailer.
Dead butterflies are messy.
After a good idea butterfly barfing, I frequently feel like I’ve done something wrong.
Likely because the creative excitement of barfing butterflies though a relief to me, can be overwhelming to others.
I know this because people have told me for most of my life:
you’re too loud
you take up too much space
stop being so impulsive,
you want all the attention all of the time
you’re making a mess barfing butterflies everwhere.
For a LONG time I listened to the people who didn’t like my butterflies.
Now? I let them fly as freely as possible.
Despite this, I still feel ashamed after being so excited. I still feel shame after creating and sharing. I worry that perhaps these are not butterflies bursting at all. I worry that I’m unleashing maggots.
Either works I guess. Maggots though not a beautiful as butterflies, are really important. Life is a buffet. There are days we get to eat. But in the end, we’re just food for baby flies waiting to happen
I want to make a NASCAR joke, but I don’t have any NASCAR butterflies.
It would be something about having both road rage and a death wish. Someone write that joke for me would ya? Post it in the comments. Person with the best joke gets a whoopie cushon delivered to them via post.