Time ticked and tocked as I stuffed my hand into a bag of Doritos. The cheese-covered corn chips left orange smudges of questionable chemical make-up on my fingers. I looked up at my irregularly-painted ceiling and frowned as I slowly nibbled the paste-like powder from my flesh, scraping my teeth against the tips of my digits.
My mouth burned as the pseudo-Mexican spices entered, and I began to thirst for a cold glass of milk. I felt uncomfortable no matter how many layers I wore, what I ate, or what I drank. I couldn’t concentrate at all.
Without a thought, I reached to one side and picked up part of my new bike’s basket, then the black acrylic paint I asked my mother to buy so that I could make a Christmas present for my grandparents. My other hand reached for a brush with a flat edge.
I was procrastinating badly. In my own mind, I was ignoring my own mental screams that urged me to write. I needed two entries today for my blog, and I could not find inspiration, nor a hard enough kick in the rear.
I felt lazy. More time passed. I finished my first bag of chips, and grimaced as I realized how much I ate that was pure junk. Another grimace that would be forgotten easily as I reached for the second bag. I didn’t even like this kind of chip. I pondered why I was inhaling them, despite my distaste.
Perhaps I did have an eating disorder, I mused. That, or I was simply stressed. Regardless, I felt bad. I wanted to go ride my bike. The agony of riding in the cold weather would surely snap me out of my reverie. However, my bike was new, and there were six inches of snow outside. My shoes would be drenched, and I dreaded what the snow would do if left on my bike. Besides that, I had to fetch the beautiful hipster bait out of the side door of the garage in order to get to it, which meant more noise than I was willing to make.
Mom was home, and she was the type to always ask, and then try to deny what I wanted, unless I had a way to get it myself against her will. For an hour, I debated with myself on going to get the damn bike and riding it.
In the end, my indecision was trumped by the onset of darkness. Even in a safe little suburb, I’m not willing to ride on an unfamiliar bike with half-deflated tires and a wobbly seat at night. Such an act screamed stupidity.
The call for dinner came from upstairs. I just wasted three hours of my day. I sighed and pushed away from my desk, then plodded up the stairs.
I helped pour milk for everyone, and one of the foster children– a girl with many an issue– decided she didn’t have enough. I told her she could get more later, but she still complained, so I looked that fat bitch in the eye and traded glasses with her. She began to whine, but didn’t switch back. I went to the kitchen to return the gallon jug of milk, only to hear the child yelling at another child, called Jaden.
I kept quiet and let my mother deal with the mess. They were her choice to bring into the house, and I wasn’t being paid to watch them at the moment. Mom took the most sanity-preserving method of keeping the peace. Both children were sent to their respective rooms without dinner. She decreed they would eat after everyone else finished their peaceful meal.
I was the first person finished with my beans and hot dog, and made a bee-line back to my room with the excuse that I needed to do my daily writing.
Another hour went by. No ideas. I reached for my book, The Writer’s Block, and began to flip through it. The words blended together, and the images looked like smudges in my mind. Nothing stuck. I tried my favorite quotes site, and still found nothing. I was running out of options.
With a groan, I grabbed my paints again and worked more on my bike basket. I wanted the connector part black, so that it was less visible. The paint job was far from smooth, but it had full coverage.
Only after I finally finished the thing, did I notice that another half hour passed in my painting-and-imgur reverie.
A dull throb of pain pulsed behind my eyes as I tried to think. Hypersensitivity kicked in, and I could feel every ridge of my thumb and finger’s lines, rubbing against my forehead. My brain refused to function, even with a looming deadline.
Skype began to ring, and I answered. Topics shifted rapidly from art, to writing, to people reading aloud. My roleplay-daughter read one story in the grittiest female Boston accent I had ever heard, and I nearly pissed myself with laughter. A new acquaintance decided to read as well, but his mind was too occupied with our accusations that he was a scat-monkey for him to enjoy my writing.
Finally, I reached out and asked for friends. I begged for ideas, and a great many were given, but not a single idea from those friends appealed at the moment. Each seemed already written, rather than something I’d not yet thought about. I wrote them down for later use, certain that one day, I would be driven to make use of them.
As I finally exhausted those possibilities, I pulled up f-list and clicked on my partner’s name. He always had excellent ideas before, and I felt confident that he would manage. After all, he was to thank for many ideas that with which I was most satisfied.
It took him several moments to respond, and he gave me two ideas. The first was to write about a man struggling with writers’ block. It was as perfect an idea as I could think of, and I began to write.