Friday, June 15, 2012

Writer's Cock Block.


Fuck me.
The cursor flashed at me. It taunted me and almost dared me to write something. I rapped my fingers gently against the sides of my laptop, praying to every god I could think of and even made up a few for good measure.
I waited, swiveling back and forth in the chair I found at a garage sale that smelled faintly of cat pee.
Anything, I thought. It didn’t have to be a noun. A verb would have made me happy, even a flowery adjective would be welcome.
I leaned back in my chair, reached for my bottle of Fundador and poured myself a generous amount into the glass beside me. I brought the glass to my lips and took a swig. I grunted, gritting my teeth and let the slow, warming burn engulf me. I slid out a Lucky Strike from its pack and tapped it a few times on my desk. I lit the cigarette and took a long, steady drag then blew the smoke at the computer screen, where the cursor still pointed and snickered at me.
I felt like David facing down Goliath, a version of David who had forgotten his slingshot and stones at home. That’s it. I have nothing left to say. I’ve written all of the words out of me. I mourned and then poured myself another glass of tequila. A word flashed bright in my mind’s eye.
I smirked. The word burned like blue fire, searing my brain. I excitedly chewed on the butt of my cigarette. The smirk grew into a wide, silly smile. I reached for my Fundador and took a delicate, lapping sip for courage. My lucky had gone out and my mouth was full of fibrous shreds of filter, but I didn’t care. I still had a few words left, a couple of more stories to tell.
The silly smile grew into a goofy grin.  It was the perfect opening line. I placed my fingers onto the home keys and hammered out…
F-U-C-K.

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