Being a writer is hard, nowadays…



I’ve been wanting to get romantic about an antique typewriter for a while now, but in the mean time I’ve been listening to a lot of Leonard Cohen. I don’t smoke cigarettes or drink much alcohol, so I don’t have that going for me; and I’m afraid that doesn’t have the same feel unless I smoke it out of long, skinny joints with freshly plucked eyebrows.

I wake up on a stained shag carpet, a nice avocado green. For a second I think to myself, “Imagine if the whole carpet was the stain and the green was really the stain and not the color”. There’s crumpled papers all over the floor and ink all over my fingers and thighs. WTF? I say, “W-T-F?”, then painfully get to my feet (I don’t have Lyme Disease in this little fancy little world, I just pretend that I do). I stumble into the bathroom and splash steaming lava hot water on my face as I grit my teeth. After my skin is deep red, I wink in the mirror and punch the light bulb out. I walk to the kitchen where I am surprised to see broken glass all over the floor, but I don’t give a shit, and I walk right on top of it all. It doesn’t matter, the blood matches my pink toe nail polish almost perfectly! I am happy when I notice this and smile.

There’s only a few things in the fridge: iced tea, an ant farm, some broken old typewriter keys, and cold falafel. Can someone say, “YUM!!!! OMIGOD YUM!!!!!!”. Seriously, can you? You really need to pronounce all the punctuation marks. I mean, no, seriously, really PRONOUNCE THEM! HOW THEY SOUND NOT HOW THEY “SOUND”! PFFF ANYWAY ::dirty look:: AS I WAS SAYING

Nothing I am really in the mood for so OH FUCKING WELL! I turn, go over to my old phonograph and turn on “What I Got” by M.I.A., and start rubbing books all over me. No, not your stupid BULLSHIT ASSHOLE-PUSSY literature, only the good stuff! I would tell you what the good stuff was but you probably don’t read. Not even this.

Suddenly a fist comes through the gaping hole in the wall clutching a intricately carved wooden hash pipe! JEEPERS!!! Now, usually I don’t do any drugs, but whenever a fist comes through my wall that could only be attached to some very unknown shady fucker, I make it my duty to cook and slowly inhale whatever said fist is clutching. And I did just that, my friends, I did just that. Just as the fist disappears the record skips and the song starts over. “OH WOW THAT WAS EXCELLENT TIMING, AFOREMENTIONED PHONOGRAPH”.

I sit on the edge of my sheet-less bed and attach some stockings (the ones with the line down the back) and attach them to the garter belt I already awesomely slept in. I already have on one of those black slip things that girls always wear when they know they are going to have black and white photos taken of them in a bedroom. I could get dressed, but why bother? This is way cooler.. So I grab a trench coat and head out, slamming the fucking door behind me. (That slam makes the record skip, and it starts over) “OW WOW, THAT WAS EXCELLENT TIMING AFOREMENTIONED PHONOGRAPH WITH EXCELLENT TIMING!”, I say as I get into the old ass elevator. Damn my annoying fuck of a neighbor is already in there. I smile as she rambles on about something, and make a mental not to write a really meaningful poem about how she smells like chicken stock when I get home. Stupid Bitch.

I walk out of the budildng and get lost in the crowd. Click clack click clack, all the people’s voices make my head float. It is raining pretty hard now and for a second I wish to myself I had put on mascara so by now I would have looked like a girl in a good horror movie. Then I realize the girls in the really good horror movies actually always had perfect make-up. That kind of ruins them for me, now that I realllllllly think about it. And I AM really thinking about it. Fucking hash, man. I get to a dirty looking hotel with a buzzing neon light outside. I go up to the second floor and take an old key out of my pocket but just as I put it in the hole the door opens and a hand pulls me in. Holy shit, it’s a random hot russian girl! She must read my stuff! And what another shock, she is completely naked! NICE! We spend the next three hours taking polaroids of each other and not talking much. After she falls asleep I take ten very old looking books off a shelf, write something illegible on a notepad, kiss it, and leave. She was really nice.

I get back home and sit at a typewriter and tap, tap, tapping starts to flow out of my fingertips.

“I’ve been wanting to get romantic about an antique typewriter for a while now, but in the mean time I’ve been listening to a lot of Leonard Cohen. I don’t smoke cigarettes or drink much alcohol, so I don’t have that going for me; and I’m afraid that doesn’t have the same feel unless I smoke it out of long, skinny joints with freshly plucked eyebrows…”

The End.

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