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Write or die.
Every day sitting in front of this computer screen is a struggle for me. I feel like someone who has been shot in the stomach. To save myself I have to crawl 500 words to medical attention. Five hundred words are what I need to write every day to feel like I have accomplished something.
Opening the lid of my laptop is when I am hit with the initial blast. I am in shock, unable to think of a subject as I watch the blood of my battery slowly spill out. I don’t have much time. I force down panic. Panic will kill you, but for the love of God why can’t I think of something to write about? What is wrong with me? Ouch! Thanks, that slap to the face helped, but I think I feel a loose tooth.
Sometimes I will crawl the wrong way for 100 words or so. I realize this isn’t the way out so I hit the delete button and start over. I can’t afford to make that sort of mistake twice in one day. The pen may be mightier than the sword, but a laptop without power couldn’t fight its way out of a wet paper bag. I want to be a writer, not a cautionary tale told to terrified English 101 students.
I apply direct pressure and peck out a sentence or two. There are many days when my will to go on is feeble, at best, but when my keen survival instinct kicks into high gear, I won’t let anything stand in my way. Move aside originality. I knee creativity in the groin and move forward as he doubles over in pain.
Keep one eye on the battery.
I am half-way there, but I feel tired. I just want to close my eyes and make it all go away. My laptop battery is down to 19%, no food or water. Coffee is cold. Tell someone that I love her. I don’t care who, just pick somebody. I like accents, so tell a cute girl with an accent I love her. This is just too painful. I will just lie down over here and die.
But I go on. I know that I have to keep going otherwise I will die a fate much worse than writers block. I will become one of those guys on the internet who write political bile EVERY DAY! If that isn’t enough to keep a guy going I don’t know what is.
I summon all of my reserves to move on. I turn off the spell-check to save preshus battery time. I grab a half-eaten scone someone has left on the table next to me. At this point I’ll do whatever it takes to survive. This is neither the time nor the place for dignity. Dignity and humor don’t belong in the same area code, and certainly not in the same essay. I would slit dignity’s throat and eat his liver if I thought that would get me through this ordeal.
I wanted to be an artist but I wasn’t accepted by that art school that advertises in the back of magazines. I thought I drew a really good pirate. Okay, I traced it. What are you going to do, sue me? Now I’m stuck doing this. Sometimes it gets really messy right here at the end of the essay. I am delirious and babbling incoherently. My life passes briefly before my eyes. What the hell could I have possibly been thinking with that haircut I had in 10th grade? I don’t want to go out like this. I’m too young.
Then I do a word count and see that I’m over 500 already. I’m not proud of this, but it’s good enough for government work, and definitely good enough for The Phat Phree. I hit SAVE and close the lid. That was a piece of cake. See you next time.
This essay is way too good for this fart-jokes-galore, sophomoric shitpile of a web page.
Phat Phree's audience is mostly nose-picking puerile half-tards and intellectually-flabby shitbirds, so you only get laughs when you take a pop culture subject and smear a booger on it.
You're way too good for this place, John Scheck. This essay is, at the LEAST, New Yorker "Shouts and Murmurs" material. No, it's better than that.
Me
Mom? Is that You?
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Posted: 7/26/2006 2:37:19 PM
I guess this means that I was adopted.
I got no problem with fart jokes. The ancient Greeks were writing those 2,500 years ago, so they are good enough for me. Although I try to keep it clean, how about this for an essay:
Suck My Dick bitch While I Jack-off and Fart and Watch Football on My Big Screen TV Don't Move Around Too Much so I can Balance this Plate of Nachos on Your Head, Bitch.
Or maybe I'll save that one for the New Yorker?
Alex
Not quite
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Posted: 7/26/2006 3:59:01 PM
"Although I try to keep it clean, how about this for an essay:
'Suck My Dick bitch While I Jack-off and Fart and Watch Football on My Big Screen TV Don't Move Around Too Much so I can Balance this Plate of Nachos on Your Head, Bitch.'"
That's close, but no cigar.
You have to add references to Britney Spears eating Tom Cruise's shit-stained thong while a fratenity pledge class lights their farts in a 21-gun salute every time the fat kid on South Park says "suck my balls!"
Tom Mc
Haha
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Posted: 7/26/2006 6:44:01 PM
Very funny...
goatlover
Just Great
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Posted: 7/26/2006 7:00:06 PM
Fantastic!
But next time please include more dick-and-fart jokes.
Sincerely,
A random nose-picking puerile half-tard.
goatlover
mysewlf
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Posted: 7/26/2006 7:01:08 PM
"I turn off the spell-check to save preshus battery time."
Doobie
My Two Scents
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Posted: 7/26/2006 7:26:46 PM
This was good but I really want to read the one about the dick/bitch.nachos/football. That one will be SWEEEEEEEEETTTTTTT!
Me
legal Matter
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Posted: 7/29/2006 8:59:57 AM
I forgot to thank Jack London for the inspiration for this essay and then I found out he's dead and can't sue me so screw that guy.
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