I’m trying to write a short story right now, early in the morning, because God dammit, that’s what writers do, they WRITE, but hell if I can’t get all the sand out of my eyes, can’t stop people emailing me and asking me to upload files, edit photographs, code bios or whatever else they expect me to do here at work. I’m trying to write, I’m feeling like a writer, chewing on my clove cigarette with a black beret set puckishly on my head, leaning back in my business exec chair with my combat booted feet crossed on my desk, throwing darts at my neon colored Che Guevera poster that’s tacked up to my office door and feverishly hoping nobody calls my bluff by opening it to investigate the pock pock pock sounds and gets a dart in the eye because then, man on man, I’d have to either step up and yell at them in order to keep looking chill or collapse, implode, rip the beret off my head and yell apologies down after them as they staggered off, clutching their face to stem the squirting blood and vitreous juices, feeling like an ass, people popping their heads out of their cubicles like meercasts/mircats to stare at me, combat boots and all, crestfallen and chin lowered, a writer who just threw a dart in a dear, dear co-worker’s eye and then man, I’d have to take the posters and hanging potted plants down and clear my desk of all my 80’s retro toys and all the other paraphernalia that signifies my cool writer’s alternative status and put on a tie and comb my hair and lace up my brown leather loafers and put on some metronome beeping music and sit ram rod straight and type with two fingers pecking at the keyboard like mechanical pigeon and hope that nobody came round with a libel suit but listening all the while for the gasp and scream of an ambulance come to take my wounded best friend in the whole wide world away to fix their eyeball and replace it with a mechanical laser like an iron Death Star with which they’d stare at me from hence forth with the utter and inscrutable hatred of an implacable enemy who plots your death from waking to sleeping and slowly drives you mad with the sheer force of your own paranoia even though they don’t actually do anything but stare at you with that bloody mechanical eye that swivels around independent of what they’re looking at like some stupid mechanical swivel eye.

Yeah. I hope none of that happens. Maybe I should just roll up my sleeves and try writing this short story. Polichenelle’s Wife. Here goes. Here… goes.