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[impure_tale]

My readers, I am afflicted. Not by any present flooding, not by violent protest, not even by a nannying Warden. No, my tormentor is something a good deal more wicked.

Writers block, my lovelies. What am I to do?

Comments

[spider_writes]

Writer's block is one hell of a cold assed bitch. The kind that looked so much more attractive the night before but somehow transformed into a two-headed, pus-spewing nagging hag that sucks all the life out of you. Rather like my ex-wife.

I can suggest only two remedies: plenty of good, mind-altering drugs or spending time with people you would normally loathe. Unbridled anger always gets my creative juices flowing.

[impure_tale]

I quite like you, sir. We should talk more.

[spider_writes]

If you're a fellow writer, then I suspect that I'll either like you as well or end up loathing every molecule in your body. Either way, sounds like it would help my own work.

So what was your name then? Mine's Spider.

[impure_tale]

The Marquis de Sade, at your service.

[spider_writes]

... Are you shitting me?

[impure_tale]

I shit you not, mon ami.

[spider_writes]

In that case, I'll actually look forward to talking to you more. And that's something I really can't say to many people. Feel free to feel honored.

[impure_tale]

I certainly shall. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Spider.