Oh my God, I've just woken up with an idea so fantastic both my ears are full up with love juice.
By fantastic I mean beautiful, high concept sci-fi that could be sold to someone in two sentences - and it would get sold.
So now I feel like the goose that laid the golden egg. Only I haven't laid anything, I'm vaginally constipated - not that geese have vaginas, or arseholes, they actually have cloacas, which are one hole does everything sets of genitals. Pretty sure my ex was 90% goose.
What do I do? OK, for me it's a golden ovum, eggbound up my creative cloaca, but for some other cunt, probably with industry contacts, it's already several cells big. I guarantee that if I do nothing I can look forward to seeing my idea on the screen within five years.
Do I spend six months squeezing this fanciful oospore down my denotative cervix, only to sit on it like an legless penguin, not knowing what the shit to do with it? Or do I just say fuck it, I'll leave it to the other guy and get on with something so out there no other mind could possibly have conceived it?
Because if I choose the former then I'm going to have a prolapse every time I check industry boards, every time I see the cinema listings, every time I talk to someone, waiting to see it already in print, or worse, on film.
If I had just one contact that I could pitch to, who understood that I twitch and that my arms are no longer mine when I'm nervous, then all would be well, but we live in a world of social eugenics. These foibles put people off.
I wrote an enquiry letter to a production company the other day, but got so nervous I wrote cunt instead of my name and pinged it off before I could stop myself.
Fuck it, I'm going to bash it out and put it through Terry Gilliam's letter box.