(no subject)
Eye Drops and the Missing Plot
A woe-begotten gentleman, with an athletic build and a backward ball cap, stood on the edge of the muddy banks of the Thonotasassa. In his hand he held a writing tablet, which was blank.
The man’s name was Robert. He had traveled to sunny Tampa in the hopes that the aquatic landscape and sea air might rouse his creative faculties into production. He had been toiling over the completion of his life-long dream - to write the great American novel - for months, when he had suddenly and harshly hit a mental blockade. His well of creativity had become as barren and fruitless as a hooker’s heart.
But there was a second reason for his choice of destination - a matter of the heart, which he held in close secrecy. If only he could find her, could see that famous mouth, and the callously cocked eyebrow before him, rather than through the unsatisfying resolution of grainy webcam photos… perhaps he could tame the tigress, and win her heart. Perhaps then, and only then, would he be given access to the conclusion of what could possibly be the most important piece of literature since Homer’s The Iliad - which he knew was lurking in the corridors of his psyche.
He had been observing, with no little amusement, the plight of a mother-alligator who had fumblingly gotten her self caught in the plastic rings from a six pack of low-carb beer that he had enjoyed that afternoon. His gaiety was brought to an end by a rumble in his well-toned stomach. He had been at the riverside long and was now hungry. He looked up and was surprised to find that the 3circledsun had set outside his notice.
At that precise moment, he truly understood what it was to be a starving artist. However, his hunger was caused not by poverty but by his own forgetfulness and year-long adherence to a strict Atkin’s diet, to maintain that ‘poetic’ look.
Thankfully money was of no import, as he had a rich daddy and only the matter of finding the nearest ATM stood in between him and his large trust fund.
He had set of on the journey of locating one such ATM to withdraw twenty dollars to afford him a protein platter at MacDonald’s (“I’m Lovin’ It” he remarked to himself with a chuckle) when he felt a hand grab his shoulder, and a husky female voice say “HEEEYY BUDDY!”
He turned and saw, with great astonishment, that it was she…
A woe-begotten gentleman, with an athletic build and a backward ball cap, stood on the edge of the muddy banks of the Thonotasassa. In his hand he held a writing tablet, which was blank.
The man’s name was Robert. He had traveled to sunny Tampa in the hopes that the aquatic landscape and sea air might rouse his creative faculties into production. He had been toiling over the completion of his life-long dream - to write the great American novel - for months, when he had suddenly and harshly hit a mental blockade. His well of creativity had become as barren and fruitless as a hooker’s heart.
But there was a second reason for his choice of destination - a matter of the heart, which he held in close secrecy. If only he could find her, could see that famous mouth, and the callously cocked eyebrow before him, rather than through the unsatisfying resolution of grainy webcam photos… perhaps he could tame the tigress, and win her heart. Perhaps then, and only then, would he be given access to the conclusion of what could possibly be the most important piece of literature since Homer’s The Iliad - which he knew was lurking in the corridors of his psyche.
He had been observing, with no little amusement, the plight of a mother-alligator who had fumblingly gotten her self caught in the plastic rings from a six pack of low-carb beer that he had enjoyed that afternoon. His gaiety was brought to an end by a rumble in his well-toned stomach. He had been at the riverside long and was now hungry. He looked up and was surprised to find that the 3circledsun had set outside his notice.
At that precise moment, he truly understood what it was to be a starving artist. However, his hunger was caused not by poverty but by his own forgetfulness and year-long adherence to a strict Atkin’s diet, to maintain that ‘poetic’ look.
Thankfully money was of no import, as he had a rich daddy and only the matter of finding the nearest ATM stood in between him and his large trust fund.
He had set of on the journey of locating one such ATM to withdraw twenty dollars to afford him a protein platter at MacDonald’s (“I’m Lovin’ It” he remarked to himself with a chuckle) when he felt a hand grab his shoulder, and a husky female voice say “HEEEYY BUDDY!”
He turned and saw, with great astonishment, that it was she…