A decided lack of personal misery
Spider sits at the foot of his bed. He wears nothing but his boxers, and only has those on because the neighbors threatened to report him if he continued to go out to get his newspaper and mail in the nude. He finishes his cigarette and stubs it out in the already overflowing ashtray at his side. The paper has been read and lays scattered on the floor. The blinking cursor seems to mock him from the upper left corner of a field of empty white on the screen of the laptop in front of him. MSNBC is turned on but the sound is turned low. What does television know, anyway?
Royce is right, he's running dry. He's always skirted deadlines by an ass hair, but now it's not just for fun. He hates it when his editor is right. He hates it as much as the writer's block itself. How can he run dry when his city has so clearly lost its mind? It isn't as if there's nothing to write about. He feels tired. He's tired, because he has no drugs. He has no drugs, because they make little-Spider sad. He can't have that. He has a younger girl to keep up with now. It's rough, but he's not going to complain. Except that, as happy as he is to have someone to sleep with and keep him company.... No one wants to read about it. No one cares if Spider is happy. Happiness is boring. Happiness also brings complacency and he can't afford the distraction... It occurs to him that his need for misery and a body on the verge of chemical meltdown may be unhealthy.
"Fuck my horrible brain meat!"
He falls back on the bed and stares at the stains on the ceiling for a long moment or two before dragging his cell phone off of the nightstand and calling Kelly. Part of him knows his subconscious is planning to fuck him. If this happens, his penis has threatened to resign and move to some other dumb schmuck's body.
Royce is right, he's running dry. He's always skirted deadlines by an ass hair, but now it's not just for fun. He hates it when his editor is right. He hates it as much as the writer's block itself. How can he run dry when his city has so clearly lost its mind? It isn't as if there's nothing to write about. He feels tired. He's tired, because he has no drugs. He has no drugs, because they make little-Spider sad. He can't have that. He has a younger girl to keep up with now. It's rough, but he's not going to complain. Except that, as happy as he is to have someone to sleep with and keep him company.... No one wants to read about it. No one cares if Spider is happy. Happiness is boring. Happiness also brings complacency and he can't afford the distraction... It occurs to him that his need for misery and a body on the verge of chemical meltdown may be unhealthy.
"Fuck my horrible brain meat!"
He falls back on the bed and stares at the stains on the ceiling for a long moment or two before dragging his cell phone off of the nightstand and calling Kelly. Part of him knows his subconscious is planning to fuck him. If this happens, his penis has threatened to resign and move to some other dumb schmuck's body.