Writer's Block

I hate it when I suffer from writer’s block. I am just sitting there at my computer with a Word document open, waiting for inspiration to strike, but then I realize there’s a block of wood on top of my body, suffocating my creativity. You may think I’m trying to be witty by saying that, but I'm not (trust me, even Dunning and Kruger told me I suck at metaphors). There is literally a huge block of wood on top of me and I think I’m about to die. It would be wonderful if someone could move this fucking piece of wood but I doubt that will happen because nobody I met in my life remembers my name or where I live besides the UPS man who delivers my Prozac pills disguised as a subscription to Us Weekly that I had arranged with my doctor. I am a lonely little writer person with no published work or credentials and I spend all my time alone because I don’t have enough self-esteem to maintain friendships/erections or be considered a functioning member of society.

Well, at least it’s an interesting way to kick the bucket. Maybe if I add this in people will finally take an interest to the autobiography I'm writing. Most of what I have so far is stories of me losing consciousness from panic attacks when my phone rings, which usually just happens to be collection services calling about my student loan debt I never paid off since I dropped out of college. But I fear the worst of friendly conversation nonetheless. Maybe since I'm about to die soon I should give you a better description of my life and memories, my emotions at this pinnacle time, my last will and testament. Mostly I just want to commit to one writing project I said I would before I die. My english professor once called me a talentless, pedantic piece of shit with less purpose than a retarded latino homeless man and that sort of halted my ambitions for a time. But the contingency of this moment has undoubtedly shook me from that moratorium.

Let's start with the root of the problem (i tried really hard on that pun, did you like it?). It’s about fifteen feet long, three feet round, resembles a hefty-sized tree trunk, and it’s lodged pretty tightly against my larynx. I really don’t recall how it got there. Kinda just fell on top of me all the sudden. It was probably those fucking teenagers next door playing one of their cut-down-the-skinny-little-wannabe-writer-guy’s-tree-and-watch-it-fall-through-his-roof pranks again. They've done that a couple times, those fucking potheads. Probably thought they were being all existential and shit. You know, further to that point, I never really believed in any of that near-death experience bullshit these people in hospitals or car crashes or whitewater rafting accidents come up with as they recount their traumatic experiences. Obviously when you’re on the brink of death your brain will conjure up some extravagant image of whatever you believe the afterlife is like to make you feel better about the fact that you’re going to die: a beautiful sunlit field, a magnificent waterfall, budding trees and flowers in a wildlife preserve, licking rice pudding off of an elderly Korean woman’s tits, it’s nothing more than a clever mirage, an illusion of the conscious mind slipping away. Personally, I’d like to imagine the scene of a mystic underworld, preferably the Erebus conception. I always took a fondness to Greek mythology. I even wrote a paper on the sexual-masochistic dimension of Hades' psyche but I was told that "the disney animated film Hercules was more enlightening than this retarded-eight-year-old prose and I am compelled to ask if the author even has the ability to last more than twenty seconds into foreplay without prematurely ejaculating all over his presumably homosexual partner" (I don't, btw).

Oh, did I mention I can still reach my keyboard to type all this out? Lucky for you. How much longer would you say I have to live? I suppose you’re just an average reader with no medical experience, although I honestly have no idea what my demographic would be since no one has ever read my work. I’ll give my own prognosis then: my lungs have pretty much siphoned off all the reserve oxygen left inside them, and I do believe they’re running almost dry by now. I should gather my last resolutions in order, make peace with the world, wait to remember my life in a series of flashes before my eyes and all that other transitory bullshit. I’m seeing a blank computer screen, some moldy tomatoes at the grocery store that look frightening, a burly man punching me in the face and taking my wallet, some bran flakes, me crying alone in a bathroom…

construction worker who found body and this document: at this point he seems to have died from suffocation. yeah, he looks pretty dead right now. we probably should have hired those professional guys to cut that tree down from the lot we were working on next door, but i mean who's really gonna miss this guy? He looks pretty gay.