hoer

... A work in progress...

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He'd been staring at his computer screen for who knew how long.
The frustration was a knot of insults rolling about in his mind--
Don't begin with that.
That sounds stupid.
You call yourself a writer?
You know writers actually write, right?
Ha... get it? I'm clever... unlike you."
He heard Roderigo's heavy footsteps from behind, heard him scratching at his belly as he entered the kitchen in search of a snack.
Mo continued the stare down with his word processor.
The stocky Polynesian raided the refrigerator for a moment before retreating to the panty only to wind up empty handed in his quest. The dying sun cast bolts of tangerine light across his tattooed from as he made his way to the desk that had become his boyfriend's ball and chain. "Hey. Wanna eat?"
Mo groaned.
Roderigo poked at him with a thick finger like a bear would to verify if its prey were dead. "Come on, take a break."
Yeah, take a break, the mental humiliation continued, It's not like you were going to write anything anyway. That takes skill and talent. You know... the kind of stuff you lack?
Mo was silent before he slowly lowered his head into his hands, fingers raking over the hair cut close to his head. "Fine, I guess..."
And hour later found them at a local pizzeria that resonated with that mom n' pop charm with trinkets and license plates on the walls and smiling, casually dressed employees and wooden chairs that creaked with the slightest movement.
Mo and Roderigo sat across from each other at a booth. Mo ordered a deep dish veggie and Roderigo went for the Mediterranean pie. There was a silence between them soon broken by the ice shifting in Mo's glass. "Still got that block, huh?" he inquired, his hand playfully swatting at Mo's knee from under the table.
Mo nodded, head resting in the palm of his hand. "I just... I don't feel inspired."
"What do you mean?" the cup of water seemed to shrink as his big hand scooped it up and he gulped away, letting out a sigh when he was done.
"I mean I can't figure out what to write. How to write, even. Where to begin. Who to write about. It's everything... like being stuck somewhere without a map." Mo idly toyed with his straw, jabbing at the cubes of ice in his cup.
Roderigo smiled. "Yeah, but if you start walking, eventually you'll end up somewhere, right?"
"I feel like I don't even have legs to walk on." Mo muttered.
"Then start crawlin'." Roderigo smiled wider while Mo shot him a glare that soon melted into a smile as well.
"I wish it were that easy..."

schmalz

I feel as though I'm discovering little treasures in the sandy beaches of my mind, little jewels and trinkets of self-discovery/realization.
For instance, I've deduced that I don't like talking on the phone. I have friends that often call to check on me (which seems to be a front for them to just talk about themselves) and they go on and on about their relationships and their pets and their work and my vocabulary is suddenly limited to an "uh-huh" or a "really?" or a "yeah" or the oh-so-clever "I know, right?"
I think it ties in with my dislike of general small talk and chit-chat. I feel uncomfortable pretending to be engaged in something so superficial.
Does that make me anti-social or something? A sociopath?
I don't know. I mean I never killed any pets as a child or anything.
Could be the effects of excessive internet usage. There's no face-to-face interaction on the internet-- it's just words and images that you process and mentally evaluate; all the dialogue plays out as a conversation in your head. You don't have to worry about eye contact or bad breath or if the other person has B.O.
It's on some other level.

(Side note-- it took me hours to complete this entry. I kept getting distracted by hunger, a cat, and my roommate playing Heavy Rain.)