lukebunny

Sitting at the coffee shop, drinking my weight in the black greasy fluid (and my weight is significant) and I still can't write. Staring at the empty page, knowing the story, and the brain stem won't fire the impulses to make my stubby fingers twitch and move and spray it forth. I can't concentrate. I can't eat. I can't sleep. I am in waking death. A romero zombie, except they at least want to eat you. I can't even eat a salad. More like Indiana Jones in the temple of doom. After he drinks the blood of Kali. Poor Indie. and short round has to burn him with the torch to wake him up. Maybe I need a torch to the chest. Any Volunteers? Cover your heart Indie! I bleed maggots out of my destroyed arms. They cover everything. My whole body is rotten meat. My days off are depressing more than relaxing. I should be balls deep in the new story, and instead I've got a fairly weak outline. I have nothing else to do on my days off. No friends. No lover. Nothing to distract me. I should be a prolific depraved mastermind. I should be having to stop myself at the end of the day, my arms mangled after typing for 10 hours straight with no break. I should have to tear myself away from the keyboard. I haven't had a day like that in a month. My days are increasingly being spent worrying over the HIV thing. I can't get it out of my mind. Dogfuckers. Every last one of you. I'm starting to wonder if the rules of the game really are: get what you want, fuck everyone else. It seems like that is what everyone does, and then moans and wails about how bad they feel, and how they are slime, and how they made such a big mistake. Fast forward a few years.....and they do it again. And then again. Is everyone that stupid? Or is everyone that selfish?