Writer’s Block Escape Attempt #1
Usefulness Evades Me
It’s what happens when yer write business copy for a doctor’s surgery.
I have advised against writing for a living before. Just don’t fucking do it.
I am swiftly discovering (again) that I can be a creative writer or a corporate whore. I can’t do both. Maybe it works for some people, but I doubt it. It’s probably why every fucker’s writing is as stimulating as a financial advisor chewing brown rice.
It’s cos we all dream of waking up and being able to get paid to write.
Well, I can tell you it’s a fucking nightmare and a severe cause of writer’s block. It’s like taking a shit in the sheep cock and potato soup you’ve spent days lovingly slow-cooking. Constipated writers have to force out a turd like a tax accountant with PTSD trying to force a smile. The vein in the side of the head swells like the number of satellites surrounding this planet, and the eyeballs blow up like stinking wet balloons.
But what can be done? I have taken the trip, and now I must follow it to its demoralizing end.
You might think my issue is not getting paid enough to write ‘copy’. It’s not. I’m getting paid two grand for this latest project, and you know what?
It’s not fucking worth it.
I’d rather work as Ron Jeremy’s fluffer. At least it might give me something to write about.
So I have a week to go on this lucrative but profoundly pant-staining project. And since I have decided, yet again, that I will write for others no more, I must start pushing out nutty turds on Medium once again instead.
It’s hard, you know
It’s like trying to get a football up your anus. You can probably do it, but it’s gonna take time while you ‘work’ the cheeks.
Let me begin working the cheeks by telling you some things happening in my ‘life’.
My local coffee waiter is looking more like Hitler every day, and I’m not sure whether I should let him know or not.
I think he is trying to become a hipster, but he isn’t even riding a Penny-farthing to work or wearing a monocle yet, so Im assuming he isn’t reading many hipster blogs.
He has this short Hitler moustache on his lip, and his hair brushed to one side. I also believe he is becoming thinner and angrier due to excessive partying. The other day he wore a green shirt that looked vaguely military, and I thought I couldn’t wait any longer. I signalled him to come over.
‘Don’t do it, Frank’, my wife said sternly. She gave me that look as if to say, ‘This is one of those times when you might get called vile like the Twitter incident.’
‘I’ll have another almond cappuccino,’ I said to the waiter instead.
FREUT MICH! he yelled, stomping his right foot and standing up straight.
It shocked me for a moment and took me out of my body back to my youth
I used to know this Scottish guy called Hamish Adams. Sadly Hamish had Tourettes, but all he would ever shout was ‘FEARGAL SHARKEY’ in a Glasgow accent. It made me wonder if the Hitler waiter thing was just some elaborate tick.
Besides corporate copywriting, that’s the main thing in my life right now, except how two police officers confronted me for masturbating in a school zone. And look, I understand why they would think that. It was definitely a faux pas to park outside a primary school and try to open a tricky muesli bar.
I could have been cooperative, but instead, I started filming the cops and throwing around words like ‘harassment’.
‘I didn’t fight in three world wars for this to happen,’ I yelled.
It’s true. I didn’t.
Finally, my Aunt Fiona swung by this afternoon to bring over a batch of what I call, her ‘fuck muffins’.
My wife doesnt like me calling them that. I call them fuck muffins because it’s what she does when she is horny. She doesnt have a partner, so she watches porn and bakes a lot. It’s pretty sad.
She mainly brings them for my wife. Fiona has never really forgiven me since that Christmas I got drunk and misunderstood what she meant when she told me to drop a log on the fire.
Anyway, I joined a gym. Well, it’s more like a leisure centre than a gym.
You can tell because there are a high proportion of old people around. Either that or somebody just turned up the gravity, and they are all young people with their skin being sucked downwards.
The point is, don’t write for anyone. Write for yourself. Unless you don’t give a fuck about writing good shit. Then do what you want.
Get a podcast, Facebook page, and a Tiktok account. Pay for people’s shopping without them knowing, and film it as an act of kindness. Or, when something devastating happens, set up the camera and put on the show for everyone, like the nurse who had a Tiktok video with the heading
‘I lost a patient today’
with emotional music and her crouching, head in hands etc.
Maybe one day, you can even be a successful white person sitting around in a suit clapping and sipping wine while the indigenous people perform their ancient sacred smoke ceremony to celebrate whatever capitalist event you have going on. And you can go home and jack off over how damn inclusive you are.
I’m feeding the cats now. The food is called Fancy Feast, but I accidentally called it Fanny Feast. Aunt Fiona would like that. She would probably finger herself over it.
Now I’m horny.
Shoutout to my boy Mike Knittel AKA The Golden Janitor, AKA The God of Travel, for yelling down the rabbit hole to wake me up. Sometimes we need to do that shit for each other.
DISCLAIMER: Perhaps readers came skulking by for some profound words to pour milk on their anxious nipples, and I wiped the sweat from my enlarged thighs and made you lick it instead. Sorry about that.
