Write Something. Damn it! Who cares if it’s crap, literally?

 

Mr-AcerbicA conversation with myself because no one else will listen.

Why don’t I feel like writing? – Arctic spring weather? Green goop in China? Wrist Apnea?

Lame, lame and lame. Just strike the damn keys until something appears –

Black-and-blue words, broken letters…

Cut the crap! You’re being lazy. No one gets anywhere by being lazy. You’ve got to park your butt on the chair and exercise your fingers. Just do it, if that is what you want to do. The hell with everything else.

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Blankety-blank page, the bleeping white brain suck

 

Thought I’d never see you again. But here you are, staring at me like a white light at the end of an airport ramp crammed with waitlisted souls.

God, you are not. If I were to compare you to an omnipotent being, it would be the devil. You torture me like he does and are as unforgiving as he is.

You burn my eyes with what I thought was desire but is eyestrain instead.

troll-devil

As I stare into oblivion, not a word on the page, only a nagging internal voice harassing me about stupid shit.

You idiot. The Word document language is set to French. No wonder the dictionary didn’t recognize the word ”blank” or “obnoxious.”

That could happen to anyone.

Doubtful!

Don’t you have anything better to do than annoy me?

Yes, but this is much more fun. Don’t you have laundry to do?

I still have “B” drawer clothing.

Not those old ratty jeans that are so faded the holes have holes.

I’ve got a long blouse that hides them.

Another hair-brained “I love Lucy” solution. Anyway, I thought you were trying to write…if that’s what you call sitting at your desk with eyes glazed over like a ham. 

I was making progress until you interrupted.

No, you were brain-dead at your desk.

Well, it’s late. I’m fried

Brain-dead, like I said. Why waste your time trying to squeeze out a thought. You could be sleeping, two dogs deep in bed with the snorer.

I just elbow Jim when I can’t take it any more.

I was talking about you.

I’d be able to sleep if you didn’t blab incessantly about nonsensical shit. What’s a Goople anyway?

It’s the dying civilization of the Goop; distant relatives of swamp people who coexist with crocodiles with which they fight for food. But often the crocodiles win. And the Goople race continues to dwindle in numbers while the crocodiles thrive.

And you wonder why I can’t sleep.

You can’t write either. Remember, blank page, whiny babble.

Well, this time, your obnoxious cynicism and outlandish ideas have actually helped. See the words!

Damn you! I’m not finished yet. As soon as you’ve finished belching from your lousy cooking, I’m going inundate you with more crazy shit.

I’m participating in Silly Sunday, hosted by Sandy of Comedy Plus. Laugh and Link Up!

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A Left Brain Plot to Kill a Right Brain Post

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Fear hangs out with the letters on my keyboard among the dust clusters and granola bar crumbs.

Actually, fear appears as a red herring, a fishy character that presumably kills off my blog post. But I know the real perpetrator, Perfectionism.

The Perfectionist evil doer hijacks my brain, duct tapes my arms to the chair, and shoves a Cashmere sock in my mouth.

Bound and gagged, I’m forced to stare at a white screen with a gray border, not boarder, although Gray never checks out, unlike my distant cousin Focus.

At least, I don’t have to make Gray breakfast or change the linens on the bed. How could I with my hands duct taped to a chair?

I just wish Gray and White weren’t on the same page. Gray darkens the psyche and White never shimmers like a high-gloss shine.

Whose idea was it anyway to align a shady squatter with a faded screen icon.

Both hold inspiration prisoner in a dark subterranean room, while Perfectionism rewrites the sentences.

“Keep your damn hands off my words,” I say telepathically.

Then add, “You won’t get away with this. You meddling bitch.”

And she didn’t.

Unbeknown to my restrained right brain, an anonymous tip from a desktop informant alerted the literary authorities of my inspiration’s incarceration.

The SWAT team arrived, smacked the evils doers with the taskbar then removed the duct tape from my arms.

I opened my eyes to a normal window view with an expanse of white space to the right.

Thanks a lot, SWAT.

You saved me from perimeter torture and gray and white page border blight.