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Sitting in the cafe, I could sense my laptop's batteries growing week. The angry eyes of the staff were upon me, but also upon the clock. I finished the coffee in my cup and raised it high in the air, motioning for a refill. I lit another cigarette to pass the time. The smoke slid roughly down my throat like a tired lover, both grown familiar and worn by time.Whaddaya think? Too forced? That was ridiculously fun to "right." I hope this thing, should it materialize, turns out better than the MeCha book club. R.I.P.
The pale glow of the moniter flickered at me imperceptibly. But I could feel it in my bones. And there was the cursor, ever blinking, ever asking: "What next?" And that was the question, indeed. My answer? You got me; I didn't know, man. The waitress brought the carafe to my table and slammed it down. I looked to her lithe body for inspiration, but I guess I looked to hard becaue she spun on me and shot me a look. It looked like she was weighing her need for her job against a desire to slap me. I can't say I blame her. You're a creep til your famous, till you've made it. Than everyone wants to know you, everyone wants a peace of you til you're torn down. But no one wants to help you get to the top; they never build you up.
So I break eye contact and start to whistle "Build Me Up, Buttercup." The waitress finaly gives up and stalks away, and I can see her fuming under her breath about me. I pay no attention as she tenderes her complaint to the nite manager. Now the manger is scowling at me too but I pay no mind. I've still got this blank screen stareing at me, and I've got to formulate some sort of reply. So I take the final drag off my cigarette, stub it out, and sip my coffee. It's lukewarm; the songs of biches didn't even bother to warm it up for me. I oughta get outta here before they calls the cops. But first, my answer.
I closed my eyes and visualized the screen filling up with text. I can do this. I know I can. And so, eyes still closed, I type out my reply to MetaTalk thread #12,000. It's a simple reply, three letters comprising: "Yes." I open my eyes and stare at my handiwork, the reply it has taken me 14 tortured hours of subjecting my body to caffeiene and nicotine poisoning, enduring stares from all quarters and silent, unblinking criticism. I feel a breath on the back of my neck, and it's the janitor of the place, reading over my shoulder.
I turn to face him, a fresh cigarette, the last of the pack, slightly crushed and maimed hanging from the corner of my mouth, to hear him say, "You know, you really are a shitty writer." And at that moment, my batteries die, before I can click the "post" button, sweeping away all my efforts as callously as the janitor was now sweeping the area around my table. Damn him. Damn them all.
posted by gsteff at 11:36 PM on June 2, 2006 [1 favorite]