“Oh what a joy it is to write on the pits of despair, the stale scent in the air, and your delectable underwear.” he coyly smirked, non-plussed by the lack of motivation to make use of the past hour staring at these miserable keys.
“There, there… peek through the window and stare. Stare as I remove those underwear and throw them on this chair.” He winked then brushed aside her smutty hair after she guilelessly strolled into his smoke-filled lair.
“You’ll be my inspiration, for I have not a one.” he said afterwards. “You came in the garage at just the right time… come to think of it, I came at the right time too. Irony. It’s amusing to think that this moment will now be considered my muse. Hopefully your tummy didn’t bruise on the workshop bench that holds my tools.” The miserable anticipation to punch at keys drifted away at that climactic sixtieth second. Drifted under somewhere. Under where? He didn’t care. As long as it was no longer there. I just made you say underwear.
“Tomorrow I’ll officially begin my recovery.” He winced as she closed the door to his heart, strutting back inside to retire for the night. “You’ll see the changes ensue and take shape. I’ll meet up with that quack therapist in the afternoon, scheduled at four, as promised before, in hopes to correct what’s broken furthermore.” but she was already inside for the night and didn’t hear a word he just spoke under those twitchy fluorescent garage lights. So, he continued to write. He wrote an entire new line; freshly inspired. He wrote about windows and chairs and peeking through like a voyeur to stare. He was even prepared to dig deeper to write on that missing thing he profusely seeks. But then that garage door opened again with a seducing creak. It was her, coyly smirking at his sudden boost of motivation to punch at those keys. Inspiration was like warm pancake syrup coating his brain with sweet ambrosial saccharine. But it was too late. Her gaze was imperturbable.
“Come now, please”. she said with a slight lean to her head. The door jam held her upright.
“Come again? I don’t think I have anything left.” he sighed mockingly. The mock was returned in a similar fashion.
So in the end he did bid those miserable keys adieu, closing the lid to the electronic box and the door to the evening dew… until the following morning when his yearning to type was rejuvenated anew.
And here he sits.
And suddenly his phone spits out a text message: “I’m convinced that I have an alien life form using me as a host. Stealing my nutrients and giving me spastic bowel syndrome.”
It all makes sense now. It all makes sense.
BRB…
JadedFish; the blog 