Saturday, 11 April 2009

The writer walked down the street. He was worried he wasn't thinking right. He was messed up. No...he was okay really. He just had to breathe deeply.
He was looking to procure a pen. A valuable tool. A valuable implement for any budding writer. Such as he was. It was about 7am, the sun beginning to rise.
He pushed open the door of the newsagent. He walked to a shelf of stationary and inspected the merchandise on display. He opted for a 35 pence biro. He
waited at the counter behind a man who was buying papers and lottery tickets and christ knows what else. The man had farted, a stale stench. His bill came to
five pounds odds. The writer waited, clutching the biro, breathing the fart. The customer ahead of him paid and then left. The writer took his intended purchase
to the groggy looking chap manning the till. He parted with his 35 pence and walked out of there, triumphant. What was he gonna do now? He was gonna walk
home and begin work. Work on what? He wasn't sure exactly... But he had the tools. He had an A4 notepad, a brand new pen. Christ, he had the motherfucking
tools and he was gonna...
Sigh. When he approached the driveway to his house he hesitated. His mother's car was still parked outside. He had figured she would've left for work by now.
Not that he wanted to avoid her, you understand. He was just in a queer, avoidant mood. Wait, I mean... He was just... There was no reason for... em... eh?
He opened the door and walked into the kitchen. He cut a slice of bread, covered it with cream cheese and lettuce. Breakfast. He extracted a can of Coke from
the fridge to wash it down with. Tres healthy.
"Where you been?" his mother asked. She was making ready to head out the door.
"Out for an amble..." he murmured after a pause. He chuckled, tried to think of something witty to add, failed.
"What are you doing going out prowling in the middle of the night?"
"I was just..." he trailed off, deciding not exercise any of his black humour at the moment.

His mother departed and the writer finished his breakfast. He climbed the stairs and went into his brother's room. His brother wasn't there. He sat down at
the computer and turned it on. The biro was still in his pocket. He had decided to type his great work of literature. But the biro was still a worthy
investment. For taking notes and such. He should get a wee notebook as well, one to fit in his jacket pocket. Oftentimes good ideas occurred to him when
he was out ambling in the countryside. Also, the computer wisnae always available. His brother used it mostly. So again, the biro was an imperative. I cannae
stress enough how important it was. He loved the biro so much he was tempted to shove it up his ass. Just kidding; he wisnae gay. He liked a lassie at work.
But she had a boyfriend... and she was young... ah christ, let's not get into all that.

He fired up the computer. He opened the Notepad application. Preferrable to Microsoft Word for myriad reasons. Microsoft Word was an anal, pedantic cunt.
All those squiggly green and red lines springing up to notify you of the fact that ye were an erroneous bastard. It was like having a doss school teacher
hovering over your shoulder, marking your work. It was infuriating.
The disadvantage of notepad was that you had to hit the return key otherwise your sentences would continue along an infinite horizontal electronic plain.
Which could be interesting actually. Printed off on a scroll. Weathered and mystical. Appropriate for a great, complex writer such as himself.
He itched his testicles and then considered searching for and viewing some internet pornography. Would that be a valid exercise? Could he possibly justify
that as research?

He had four days off work. Four days with no restrictions, limits, or responsibilities. He would divide the time between reading, writing, watching the Wire
and playing video games. He wanted to reduce the latter activity. It was sort of mind-numbingly addictive. Maybe he should impose some sort of limit on
himself with regard to... ah shit. He lacked discipline and organisation. He acknowledged this, recognised this unfortunate behaviour in himself but
seemed to be unable to alter it. He was self-obsessed, morose, neurotic. Sometimes. Othertimes he was okay. Anyway...

The writer stopped typing. It was time to write an actual story.

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