I’ve fondled my brain boob enough and am ready to finally write the story that I was supposed to write ten years ago. The deadline is still hanging over me like a piece of caramel stuck in and dangling from a giraffe’s ass, but if I can reach it, and squeeze it, I would finally be able to taste its beautiful, sour cream taste (after washing it with a hose, of course).
But the fountain of my writing dreams has dried up and has no stories.
I built in when I moved into my new home that the socialist government had given to me, and everyone else, after being homeless for so long. And I would go there and take my baths, soap my luxurious, sepsy, hairy body as I thought of all the stories I wanted to tell the world. Birds would come over and sing to me, and rabbits and tortoises and deerlings would come over to sing to me, and spiders, and centipedes, and mantis and black widows would come over to sing to me, and together we would sing, and I would get enough inspiration for a story.
But this is no more.
No more singing animals, no more public baths, there is nothing but a dried, empty fountain which instead of being filled with water and all of my bodily fluids is now filled with water and one of my bodily fluids: tears! Tears of disappointment in myself for being a failure.
I work 4 hours, 3 days a week, and with all the rest of my free time, I go to my garden, sit in the fountain, and I try to write. I have tried it with pencils and pens and even with another pencil, but none of these instruments work. I have tried using an electronic telephonic device that connects to the world wide web to record myself and get something, but none of them work.
“I want to write again, let me write! This cannot be!” I say as I swim in the waters, very sad, at the injustice in me.
If I am writer who has written, that makes me a writer? But if I am a writer who no longer writes, then I am no longer a writer? I no longer posses the drive to continue and I must give up.
“I can’t do this, I can’t do this! I give up!” I scream to the waters again. My editor, Mr. E. D. Itor, who lives next door, hears me from his second room bedroom, jumps over the window, sprints over his yard, hops over my fence doing a backflip, comes over, grabs me by the flesh collar, shakes me, and punches me once, twice, three times.
“Get a grip!” he says and punches me once more because of that one day I bit his toe. I am on the fountain, completely naked, and covered in blood, but something has awaken in me. I can barely notice it.
“I’m sorry. I thought could do this. I thought that I could write but I was a wrong. I am a failure…”
Mr. E approaches me tenderly, grabs grass from my yard, and rubs it all over my face.
“Enough,” he says I do not say anything. Mr. E sighs, he needs to find a way. He shows me my hand. “You know what this is?”
“My hand, wet and bloody.”
“Yeah, and you know what? This water and blood flow through you. I know you totally can do this. Being a writer is in your blood, in your soul, and in your mind. Do you remember your great-grandfather? He wrote stories for the workers themselves including the world’s most beautiful birth poem ‘Life Shines Tonight’ which all workers now sing when they want to get pregnant. Do you remember your grandmother? She was the best-selling author of her generation with such classics as ‘Mayhem of a Robot Party’, and ‘I Know It’s Peepee, But I Licked It’, and ‘Oscar the Cat vs. the Imperialist’ and ‘Help Me, I’m Not Kidding, I’m Being Kidnapped in My Own House and Forced to Write Books by my Capitalist Government’. Do you remember? And now her body is floating somewhere in the galaxy. So you see, friend, writing lives in you, you have to continue this legacy until the very end, and whoever you inspire shall continue and then their sons and their daughters and then their sons and their daughters and on and on until they end up becoming like dancers or something. This is not about this fountain, you see. This is all in your mind. It is in you. To love. Now let’s get this damn story finished.”
My eyes are delighted and I stop crying, nodding in ecstasy. I immediately put out the plastic bag where I keep my notebook and begin to write as fast as I can. I cannot believe what is happening. The ideas are flowing through me as Mr. E looks over me and pats me on the head and keeps rubbing my face with stuff he finds on the floor.
“I did it!” I say and put up my arms triumphantly as I get out of the fountain. “I am as great as my ancestors.”
Mr. E browses through my writings and nods approvingly, with tears in his eyes, and gazes proudly towards the horizon.
“With this story about talking suppositories, I feel we have entered a new realm of writing possibilities. My friend, you are the writer you were always meant to be. You big champ!”
We both blush, very sure that this is going to be the last time I ever have writer’s block. Thankfully, it is something that only ever happens once!