🦋'MY WIGGLY WORLD!..'💀
It's HAPPENING! A Letter About My MUSE in 2026 by Chasey Delaney. [04.01.26]
“Everyone is writing about all of this political stuff all day, and I’m over here like…. ‘I’mmma Wrrrrrit0R! (who can’t write for toffee!) also, choking on this Burrito Baby”
THIS LETTER IS HUGE AND LENGTHY - THE LONGEST ONE I’VE DONE (that’s what she said!?! lol) SO TO GET ALL CONTENT PLEASE OPEN EMAIL ON YOUR BROWSER OR READ IT DIRECTLY THROUGH THE APP.
SUNDAY 4 JANUARY 2026
Dear Chasers!…🦋
I’m really good at daydreaming, a state made more easily reachable with a cigarette in hand, but the bark of real life is becoming louder and difficult to shut out. I’ve been trying not to write about it.
Even the most mundane parts of it which make up the whole more often than not. I’ve tried to step out into my imagination again and it always leads me back to one place where I can write by motivation, chasingthemuse.substack.com is where I romanticise the notion of being inspired.
I know I’m not a real writer now because I write best from emotion as opposed to action. It has never been about whether I am an author or novelist or fiction over non-fiction writer. I thought that because I can write better than I can talk that would make me be a fucking writer! Also, because I enjoy writing and do it so often, in notebooks, emails, even tried poems once upon a time.
I can call myself a writer (and I still will and do -if you’ve noticed my opening bi-line or sub-title quote (whatever).. I consider myself to be, doth your cap, a wrrrrriiiiittOR! - although, I do admit that I can’t write for toffee.
Motivation is an emotion and I am an emotional writer who bought into the MUSE idea of being naturally inspired to write. I dined out on the energy of falling in love with a public figure who I idalised because they ‘inspired’ me (and millions others who follow their platform). I had a little bit of an obsessive crush on that person, crossed the fine line between life and imaginative fantasy. I was writing and falling in love while he was sort of ‘fighting me off’ and writing me off to boot.
I used this publication to write to him in a ‘silent setting’. I now think about the MUSE as a person who rejected me but I enjoyed loving all the same.
To me a MUSE is much more than just an inspiration, it is every emotion, and more, that you put into art that transpires from adoring it, from appreciated it, from visualisation, from representation and the efforts or shit you make by way of being grateful for the mere existence of your MUSE.
I can still trace a strand between my life and his. I don’t feel an overwhelming urge to look into it anymore. To ‘see myself’ in his performance on his platform, his progression with his work, or even in his art (I feel a deep seated knowing that there is something ‘happening’ in his heart that I have been or will be part of one day - but I’m a crazy fat-lady (even the cats won’t have me!).
I’m out-of-date, over-aged, unstable with a psychological accolade, life-long disability. Who can take any notice of a novice writer mainlining her words on the page from schizophrenia, strong coffee, a bit of aromatherapy aftershave!
I sprayed away to my heart’s content, an almost finished bottle of aftershave that I bought in mid-December, supposedly for my partner.
I know he doesn’t like aftershave and most of them make him sneeze and he prefers his beard and hair to smell of vinegar and fermented cheese. I bought two bottles of cheap stuff. One from back in the day when I used to work and I’d loved to buy BOSS bottled for every male in my radar at Christmas.
I also bought an even less expensive fragrance, £13.99, which I bought knowing it would be for me. Clinique Happy (for men) and I fucking adore the scent. It’s like a shot of fresh citrus aromatic, sneeze-inducing, choke-the-room-out, natural sanitising bliss.
Like I said, I’ve almost done the bottle in because I’m not one for waiting for special occasions, or raining days, or good days to appreciate the things I love. I love them every single day. Night or day. If I need an bit of aromatherapy in my face its happening.
I display my gratitude for stuff I love by loving it! Same with the man I love. (Spraying it all over my face at any given opportunity!).
It’s all or nothing with me.No grey areas (except the hair on my head), no middle ground (except the midriff spread around my waist), no moderation (except the means to keep the passions sustained). All I’m saying is that even when times are tough, and money is sparse and joy is a thing of the recent past, we can all do with a little bit of happiness, even if it comes in a bottle you bought as an Xmas present to yourself. I call it stupid self indulgence, stinking like a whore’s handbag every day in the house in my hoodie, shorts and dressing gown, doom-scrolling on my phone!
Who cares? It’s the closest to self care I get which is another part of my love language vocabulary. If I don’t care, nobody else will care for me. Self care is a form of self love.
The other is to masturbate furiously as fast and as often as need be. I’m not there
Not so loving of oneself to go back to days of mangling my minge by misadventure getting it caught up in kitchen utensils and rubbing it raw on the shower tray seeing how far I could squirt it out of the door and onto the bathroom floor!
I guess I might try and be as tenacious and blinkered about loving myself as I have been and still lean toward dreaming of getting to be with the MUSE and feel this in-love feeling in person.
I have stopped dreaming. I know where I stand in that situation and in life in general. I am slowly but surely finding more clarity about my situation, daily, hourly and still, I try to ignore it and shut it out.
If I applied the effort I do trying to get other people to like me or at bare minimum - not dislike me - not hate me or even just to lift the lid off their indifference just a bit to let me let my steam out. I don’t want him to love me or like me or anything.
I wished on every grain of salt in my attitude and my mouth that he would please accept me because he is the only place in the world, yes the MUSE as a place, a home, an environment, a person, a soul, a community, a connection, everything in his ecosystem screams to me that’s ME! I relate to something, like its MY place.
You see, with me I’ve never fitted in anywhere, nor did I care or even want to fit in. I have never belonged and been an outsider even in my own home. As an unwanted baby, then an abandoned child, then a shunned teenager, then an outcast young adult, then a lonely adult, then second-class citizen in my long term relationship taking me out of loneliness and suicidal intentions but dragging me back into a life I had already outgrown, I have never belonged anywhere.
There is this thing happening inside me, where the people I love here are nothing like me, they barely like me, I don’t fit in, they might not want me anymore. The person (the MUSE) who I loved and adored before I realised I was barking up the wrong tree, wouldn’t have me either but allowed me to join in.
I was part of something I related to but never accepted. I don’t relate to the people who have accepted me so either way I am stuck rigid, half in / half out of nowhere.
I trick myself into seeing myself in the tiny stray hair brushstrokes, in the careless creases, the unfinished poems, the least accepted abandoned artwork’s long forgotten abstract acceptance.
I was never there, and I’m afraid to look for or wish to find freely, my own environment reflected back at me through the long ‘thousand mile’ stare, in the MUSE’s glazed eyes - every time I see this happening, I want to be on his mind.
My emotions skitter on the breeze. They go their own way. I need to stay in my own lane or (many lanes as from the size of me!) don’t get me started on the mundane and the heavy weight on my shoulder, both metaphorically, about life practically, and literally.
I’ve got to admit that I’ve put on a bit of timber over this so-called festive period. I know about five fat people and I’m four of them. :(
Not shaming myself or anything just thinking about adding a bit more movement to the 2026 daily itinerary.
I intend to spend most of 2026 concentrating on physical fitness, because let’s face it, from 2021-2025 I’ve been working on my emotional well-being, maybe a large portion of time set aside to rectify my ‘scary’ mental health condition. Neither one of those seems to be at a new destination and farther away from improvement than it was before I started. Time to get to the core of all my problems, the body, the stamina, the appearance, and what better time to put some fucking effort into it than now. Now I have managed to mold myself into Ursula (the Little Mermaid’s arch nemesis).
The only place I should ever belong is under the sea with all the other hunchback whales and massively sized marine life.
It’s funny how when life feels like it’s swelling, your mind starts sinking and your body prepares for the drowning by becoming its own submarine machine.
Is it any wonder my partner is distancing himself from me sexually again!
I wouldn’t mind but I have missed him being around me lately. He’s only in the other room of our tiny apartment which is about two foot larger than what I imagine a fucking jail cell would be, still, I’ve missed him being sat on the sofa next to me. Sitting pleasantly asking each other what we want to eat and doing nothing with our lives and that was fine for me until we die. Not quite. I’d be thinking about writing, playing music, keeping mum company on video call - he’d be constantly gaming on his PS5 console.
Not the ideal life to lead persistently but it represented a bit of peace and normality and that is what I need. I spend the morning ‘checking in’ with him, answering to his needs of feeding, heating (I’ve learned how to adjust the valves on the boiler when it packs in), bathing (apparently I’m a dab-hand at preparing or running* a bath for him now),(bringing in) refreshments, (locating and delivering) remote controls and the list goes on. I wish I could go running like a I used to do, if it wasn’t for *running the bath, I’d tell you that I haven’t run for at least 13 years.
Eventually he delights me in telling me that he is coming to join me in what I now call ‘my’ room. The shitty living room. It’s drafty and overcrowded with piles of necessities.
It’s uncomfortable to sit at my desk in there anymore, what with the boxes and all my stationary items like notebooks, bags, clothes, toiletries, old laptops and printers that I’m still locked out of. I couldn’t keep up with the instant ink subscription payments.
All the stuff that I’d ‘tidied up’ ready for storage, only we have no fucking place for storage so now its the junk pile. I prefer the bedroom which I used to call the room of doom but it’s smaller, cleaner and cosy to relax in, that’s why he lies in bed all day.
Once he’s in ‘my’ room with me supposedly working on my laptop. Music playing, mum on video call - blinking cursor on the blank page, I’m still no more happier. I’m still distracted by the acres of silent passage between us, our elbows are literally centimeters apart and it feels like we are farther away from each other than we were in separate places. It was supposed to be us against the world but it seems we are just two individuals stuck in the same corner of the world - scared to get into it.
I’m distracted by his calm composure like he doesn’t have a care in the world. I continue to plod along and for a while my mum is silent too because she is crafting with plastic diamonds and jewels and my heart is breaking off in huge hungry sharp shards tearing at my soul as I am starved of affection from the man I try get close to.
With my Mum I am in the right company. I love her dearly but mostly she doesn’t get me. I am mostly alone with my thoughts and feelings.
He leaves me out in the cold, even elbow-to-elbow, he gives me the cold shoulder. In the end I encourage him to get a bath (or another bath) and I will run it for him, just to get rid of him again. I can’t write at all anyway with him hear for fear he is ‘deeking’ (peering) over my own shunned fucking shoulder while I attempt to type.
I’ve noticed my notebooks getting thinner after I’ve been anywhere for a walk. It’s like pages have been torn out in chunks. I think he is snooping on me through them. I can tell by the binding of the big gaps and spaces where pages have been.
Kind of like our relationship now, full of secret holes, where love once was, torn apart by each of us, alone in the dark, searching for secrets of the heart. Passively forgetting to share our thoughts because we care enough to shut the fuck up and it hurts us still far too much to talk.
I just asked him to pass me something as he was in ‘my’ room getting fresh boxers after enjoying his second bath that I had encouraged him to have.
He said where are your fucking manners? I said, ‘same place as your love is!’.
I‘d love to say he ‘soon shut up’ (as British people do when they gob-smack someone) but he didn’t, he just kept repeating, ‘where are your manners?’ I said ‘thank you’ (for the third time) and he lingered by the door telling me to say please next time, then waited for me to say it post-passing-of-item, for him this time too. With a heavy heart at him missing my gripey comment about his love being missing too, I said, ‘please’ and away he fucked giving no fucking fucks what-so-fucking-ever.
Final Considerations:
TO GET IT STRAIGHT- I can’t change! (nor would I ever want to) and I will allow myself to love you, from the borders of self-control, because let’s face it, I ain’t got no hope in hell of having you for my own (and you don’t eat much for a fat* man! I eat loads for a fat lass!). I’m fat and I love food, I love drinking* and I am estranged to exercise… trails off and records a bit on the audio thing. Here’s to peace & productivity! Adios Samosa!
Learn To Love Your MUSE & Never Let Go Too Soon!
*If you listen to the audio ABOVE you will hear an explanation about this sentence and the use of the term ‘fat’ - its a daft in-joke. I’m not shaming. I don’t mean anything by it only that food is part of my vocabulary in my own personal curriculum in the language of love. I love the little quote I made about those who eat together!? Genius at work.. now, I’ve got the lost boys song stuck in my head from that scene.
All for your aMUSEment💀
Best Wishes,
Chasey💀Delaney…. x
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