Fuck

What?   You idiot.  Why write a story where we get sick?   Why not write a story where we win the Publisher’s Clearance House or the goddamn lottery.   That’s the stories you should be writing, not shit about viruses.   Why the fuck would we want to get viruses or bacteria or anything that makes us sick?   Idiot.  

    Maybe you need me to write the outline?   Then, you could write it, right?   Subconscious automatic writing?   Tell your subconscious to go fuck itself.   Better yet, tell your subconscious I’ll fuck you when you write the story of us being filthy rich.   That’s . . .   You just write what your automatic writing tells you to write?   You can’t control it.   If I asked you, could you write the word “juxtaposition”?   See, then you can control it.   Bastard.  

      Let e get this straight?   You’re acting as a medium and writing the story they tell you to?   Tell this Spirit your fucking girlfriend fired them and we want them to scram and send us someone who could send us money.   Imagine a land where we’d visit where American $100 bills are raining from the sky.  We don’t want catastrophes, natural disasters,poverty, etc.   No, send those spirits to some other whack job.  

     Writer’s block?   What if they go away and you get writer’s block?   You know I heard fucking me like crazy could cure that, unless I get a goddamn headache from the bullshit you wrote.   

      Yes, readers like a sense of humor, remember.   Sicknesses ain’t funny.   Yes, even if you wrote about a man with amennoreah.   Nobody knows what the fuck that means.   Nobody but you knows what vitamin H is.    And even if you wrote it, no one would understand what Haldol is.   

     Maybe we could write a together.   Would your Spirits object to that?   Good. 

So, we’re driving to some place like 7/11, CVS, etc.   Does it matter where the fuck we go?   Ok, we’ll go there.   Fine.   Why.not?   Do you need to write it down first so the goddamn car doesn’t get syphilis?  Good.  Go write it and put down we’ve won trillion dollars in untaxable American dollars.  

       It’s your story, you can write about whatever the fuck you want.   There ain’t no rules.   Research?   You just said the spirits do your writing.   So, you ain’t doing research when they guide your hands. Right?    So, why the fuck would you need to do research on this.   Do you want me to be sick and broke?   Is that it?   No, you just said you’d have to do research.   Did you study my stomach?   Then why the fuck would you have to study taxes?   That don’t make no sense.  

    If you keep writing about that shit, I’m breaking up with you.   Write about me losing forty pounds, write about world peace.   Not whirled peas.   World peace.  

    Then, bye.   No, I’m not.   I can find some other desperate writer who’s single, horny, and have him win the fucking jackpot in the Mega Millions.   

*

  So, I left.  Packed my shit and left.   Three years of my prime wasted.  Idiot.   How shard could it be to write a fucking story about us being rich and healthy?   But, I thought it would get better when I moved out.   But man oh man, was I wrong.  

     Weird shit started happening even though I moved out.   Shit like the pistols in my vehicle turned into teddy bears.   Why?   Who’s directing him now?   Money rained up, like to the fucking sky out of everyone”s purses and wallets.   Idiot.   It was supposed to rain money down, not up.   Down.   Maybe he wrote we didn’t have to put any money down?   Why God gave my dumbass boyfriend this gift instead of me, I’ll never understand.  I could write about prosperity, easy.  Then, it happened.  I heard something.   It almost sounded like my boyfriend, but with a New York accent and it said, “Then why don’t you?”   Wait, I ain’t got no computer or nothing.   I ain’t taken no classes.   The thought/voice said to go to Goodwill and I’d find something we could use there.   Good, I thought.   I’ll be rich and have a Ford Fusion instead of this vehicle with no pistons.  

     So, I went to Goodwill, but there weren’t no computers.   Then, the goddamn voice said to look in the corner.   So, I looked and saw an old fashioned type writer.   The kind with the fucking bell at the end.   Like when you get to the end of a line.   The reader probably ain’t never seen one of these fuckers before.   Only at Goodwill.  

      It was cheap.   I also got fucking typing paper at Walmart.   Then, I brought this shit back to my . . . Then, I remembered, I’m not living with my boyfriend anymore.   I got all this luggage and this goddamn typewriter from the Stone Age.   So, I go to Starbucks.   That’s where professional writers go, right?   I order a Frappachino put my luggage down and plug in my typewriter.   Every other customer stares at me like I’ve just come from Mars.   Then, I hear him, “Forget those fuckers and listen to what I’m telling you to type.”    Ok.  

     So, I listen and type like a secretary taking dictation from their boss.   But, I don’t like what he’s having me write.   He’s telling me I have some weird disease called diverticulitis.   What the fuck is that?   I don’t want that so I tell this son-of-a-bitch NO.   I’m want to write a story where I become filthy rich, married, own a goddamn home.  

     There’s a pause, then a warning.   “If you don’t write what I’m telling you, I’ll write it myself.”   How you gonna write shit if I ain’t typing it on this goddamn piece of shit from Goodwill?   Then, the typewriter started typing itself in invisible ink.   Or maybe the goddamn typewriter from the stone age ran out of ink.  Then, Starbucks started rotating and I felt vertigo.  Like the floor turned like a hamster wheel.   I started typing, “I suffer from diverticulitis.” and the room returned to normal.   Fuck.  So that’s why that bastards didn’t write about us getting rich.   Great.   So, I wrote about this stupid disease, but thought what if I write about the disease getting better or a cure for this disease?   “No, that’s not how this works”.   It isn’t just speaking in my head, it can hear my thoughts?   “BINGO”

     So, I can’t think about what I want to write or the direction of the story and the SOB can read my mind.   But what if I just don’t think?  

      “Then you’ll only think my thoughts and your brain will decay.”

Fuck.  I’m trapped or he’s trapped me. Wonder if my boyfriend’ll take me back?