Writer's Block
I have writer’s block.
And I don’t mean that I don’t know what to write. I know what to write. It’s in my head, dancing in front of me like a strip tease girl. Something I can look at but I can’t touch lest the underpaid ex-Marine decides to kick my ass because he can’t kick the government’s ass for fucking him over, sending him to some awful place in the world and cutting him loose because he isn’t useful to them anymore. Yeah, that’s what he’s gonna kick my ass for and so I can look but I can’t touch. And she knows it. She’s a mean bitch. She’s a Hollywood stripper. Not the real kind. No, she’s some starlet who can’t get a decent job because she looks too good and nobody listens to what she says only the way her body shakes when she laughs or when she jogs or even when it’s sitting there perfectly still. She’s a celluloid goddess with eyes that know exactly what I want and tell me that she knows exactly what I want and also tells me that there is no fucking way on this planet, in this lifetime, that I’m going to get it.
Go on, she says. Touch me. Try it.
And I try it. Because I believe what pretty girls tell me.
And the ex-Marine kicks my ass seven ways to Sunday. Beats me so hard that I don’t even feel the pain anymore. And when he carefully puts my teeth on the curb, he’s kind enough to whisper, “This is gonna hurt” in my ear just as the back of his heel hits the back of my head and then finally, the beating is over.
And the stripper says, “Ten bucks for another ten minutes.”
And, painfully, with my broken arm, my broken fingers, my broken collar bone and every other piece of me broken, I reach back-back-back to my wallet, every single drop of blood I’ve got left in me that hasn’t splattered on the floor screaming for me to stop, and I reach back-back-back and I fumble out my wallet. It drops to the floor. I have to stoop with my back broken in seven places, but I pick it up. She won’t even help me with that. And I reach in to that wallet and take out Mr. Hamilton.
And she starts dancing again. And the bouncer watches me close.
I’ve got writer’s block.
And I don’t mean that I don’t know what to write. I know what to write. But she won’t let me touch her.
And I don’t mean that I don’t know what to write. I know what to write. It’s in my head, dancing in front of me like a strip tease girl. Something I can look at but I can’t touch lest the underpaid ex-Marine decides to kick my ass because he can’t kick the government’s ass for fucking him over, sending him to some awful place in the world and cutting him loose because he isn’t useful to them anymore. Yeah, that’s what he’s gonna kick my ass for and so I can look but I can’t touch. And she knows it. She’s a mean bitch. She’s a Hollywood stripper. Not the real kind. No, she’s some starlet who can’t get a decent job because she looks too good and nobody listens to what she says only the way her body shakes when she laughs or when she jogs or even when it’s sitting there perfectly still. She’s a celluloid goddess with eyes that know exactly what I want and tell me that she knows exactly what I want and also tells me that there is no fucking way on this planet, in this lifetime, that I’m going to get it.
Go on, she says. Touch me. Try it.
And I try it. Because I believe what pretty girls tell me.
And the ex-Marine kicks my ass seven ways to Sunday. Beats me so hard that I don’t even feel the pain anymore. And when he carefully puts my teeth on the curb, he’s kind enough to whisper, “This is gonna hurt” in my ear just as the back of his heel hits the back of my head and then finally, the beating is over.
And the stripper says, “Ten bucks for another ten minutes.”
And, painfully, with my broken arm, my broken fingers, my broken collar bone and every other piece of me broken, I reach back-back-back to my wallet, every single drop of blood I’ve got left in me that hasn’t splattered on the floor screaming for me to stop, and I reach back-back-back and I fumble out my wallet. It drops to the floor. I have to stoop with my back broken in seven places, but I pick it up. She won’t even help me with that. And I reach in to that wallet and take out Mr. Hamilton.
And she starts dancing again. And the bouncer watches me close.
I’ve got writer’s block.
And I don’t mean that I don’t know what to write. I know what to write. But she won’t let me touch her.