Once you make a rule– in this case, “Sunday morning is writing time–” once you make a rule, the opposite will happen. I took time to do other things. Sixteen minutes to whiten my teeth. Put on a Biore nose strip. Trim my body hair. Sixteen minutes. Enough to derail all meaningful thought for sixteen hours. I’ll never write again. All the other shit I’ve made this week: fucking garbage. Therefore I’ll never be famous. Never make the girls melt like the comedian who shared at AA last night. Now I have to google him like every woman in the room did. God dammit why wasn’t I a comedian. No one googles me but me. Although I do it enough to affect SEO.
Well they can’t do what I do, I think. Sit down at the keys to prove it. Watch the wizardly words flow out of my fingers. Crisply honed sentences. Metaphors that connect souls to truths they’ve thought their whole lives in unguarded corners of the mind but were just inchoate murmurs, until now… WATCH ME. WATCH ME, MOTHERFUCKERS–
Nothing.
Accept defeat. I’ll never write anything good again. What’s left of me. Half decent guitar player; about 60% funny. Enough to get a sideways glance from a fat elderly woman covered in roast beef purple cysts, maybe.
(Check out my book Hot Naked Tits.)
delicioustacos 