It’s that day when the brain doesn’t speak to the fingers. The words I force out either look like something that came out of an elephant’s ass or is about as entertaining as watching grass grow. Disconnected dialogue, disjointed scenes, emotionless moments of something that should pull your heart up through your throat. Other days, I make it look easy. Open up MS Word, plop down in my favorite spot on the sofa and magic appears on the empty document. Instead of working on my WIP, I’m just going to randomly write whatever pops into my head. Hell, maybe it will lead to something fantastic.
Shit never goes the way I planned it. I dress up real nice, even paint my face with decade-old makeup. Two people show up, fake-smile to be nice and leave without so much as a goodbye. Guess that’s what I should have expected. I’m the shit stain in a family of crusty underwear, the pit surrounded by a bunch of rotten peach skin. Might be nice if I was at least pretty. Instead I got my father’s bulbous nose, and mother’s eyes – eyes that sit so far apart people sometimes congratulate me on mopping a floor.
I don’t even know why I bother tryin’ anymore. People are gonna be people no matter what you do. Just like a fart is gonna smell like a fart, no matter how much Febreeze you spray up your ass. No I ain’t never tried to spray Febreeze up my ass. Could you imagine?
Thing is, I’m a hard-workin’ woman. I pay my bills just like the next Jane Blow. Way I do it may not be conventional, but you do what you do and the results are all that matter. That’s why I was kinda glad when shit hit the fan. Nothin’ ’bout the apocalypse was bad for a girl like me. Ain’t bad for me now, except when some asshole shows up at two in the mornin’ expecting a blow job. Fuck man, people gotta sleep.
Haha! This character will fit nicely in my Post-Apocalypse. Not sure who she is, but I like her. Anyway, sometimes a good way to fix a crappy writing day, is to just write something else.
Copyright © 2015 by Sophie Giroir