From under the rock

Silence on the page is like a flatline. Satisfying. Complete. There are no ups and downs. That angst for survival is stripped away from your skin like a moist old bandaid and your bloody gashes can heal in the cold open air. Fucking adjectives. They pile up in me so the next few pieces I write will be cluttered with ‘em. I wish I could write that without an apostrophe. I want to write in slang but I really care about those apostrophes.

I feel like I want to say sorry for not writing. I want there to be people in the world waking up every morning pissed because there’s no new content by me. I know there aren’t any, except for me. Writing is like masturbation but you never finish. You just get aggravated and shaft your dick and your hands cramp up.

But anyway. Sorry or fuck you, you pick. I’m back to the page.

Writer’s Block Week @ CC

I’ve documented my share of lit-constipation, and this week at the Conceited Crusade I’m supposed to pine for the days where words used to run down over the page like I took alphabetical laxatives. But this week I’ve had quite a healthy digestive system, thematically speaking (and literally, drink lots of water guys), so instead I wrote some flash fiction about divorce and killing bad guys. Read it here.