A Bad Writer's Limbo

I'm sitting in my apartment downtown that I can't afford staring at the wall while Speaking In Tongues plays loudly off the surround sound speakers that I didn't buy. Just staring at the wall listening, it's Sunday and I'm not doing anything, I have only $30 in my bank account. Buy food? I haven't eaten in two days. Buy cigarettes? My hands are shaking without having one. I go stand by my balcony door and move the curtain looking down on the street. It's just becoming spring, it's nice to see the sun heating away the last remaining piles of snow. I feel like those piles as they melt away into nothing... it's time for me to disappear.

Looking at the ceiling fan going around and around, it's dark, pitch black other than the reflection of the moon off the lake water leaking through my window. I think I'm dreaming but I must be awake? It keeps turning faster around and around and a rope drops down from one of the fans, it's dangling but also spinning too. The sound from the fan turning is getting louder, becoming a ringing sound that keeps getting louder, and louder as the ceiling fan turns faster. Then the knot, my noose, suddenly stops, the ringing remains getting louder and it won't stop. This has to be a dream, it's impossible. The moon's light turns red and then the ringing turns into one loud gunshot like bang... My eyes shoot open (were they even closed?) and the gaze from the moon is back to it's proper state, the ceiling fan spinning normally with no ring, no noose.

Pouring rain is supposed to continue for the rest of the week. I like the rain, hearing it come down hard on the tin roof, watching it pour into the lake and the ripples never stopping, the trees look visually pleasant even though most of them are dead and just plain. I don't really feel like being outside getting wet other than when I do step outside for a cigarette. Writing is what I'm doing now "It should pass the time" I told myself. I don't want to sleep through the day even though I'm exhausted from doing nothing and barley sleeping at all. It's lonely in the woods, I can't say I hate it because I don't. The solitude is more comforting than discomforting but still...it's just lonely... I think I deserve to be alone though. I'm at my family cottage, a large private lakefront property in the middle of nowhere. I thought if I disappeared from society I could get a grip on myself, but really I just chain smoke and drink beer while sitting down in an old chair staring out at the lake. I need something to do, so I want to find something to cut up pieces of wood laying about. In this old garage, much like the other buildings on the property it is an eyesore. Full of things, old furniture, some machines, tools, more tools and junk and more junk. After looking through what I can I find a saw and go to this wood pile. I begin cutting. After awhile (not sure how long) my clothing is covered in saw dust and the ground is covered in small cut pieces of wood, beer cans and cigarette butts, deep down I was hoping a lit bud would light the dust and begin burning everything down, the eyesore garage and the eyesore that has become myself. I wake up at five AM hungover everyday and sit in an old beaten-up chair drinking black coffee in the dark roast of the morning. Never knowing what will go through my mind in the new mornings, but this specific morning had a memory. Taking a sip of the harsh coffee I'm thinking about the time a trans woman sent me naked pictures of her breasts over Instagram one night, I wonder what she's doing now? I have to carpool to the job I got in a lumber yard, I also have to walk two kilometres down a dirt road to get to the pickup spot. It's dull work and longer than a typical 9-5, I think about sex a lot with my time and pray that one day a beautiful woman will drive inside the yard, look at me and tell me to "Get in" and we drive off. I don't know where, just somewhere. I don't think it matters where you go, as long as you're beside a beautiful woman... does it really matter where you are? On one of my breaks I decided to take a walk around the small town I was working in for no real reason other than breaking the chain of boredom, I was smoking and walking past this alley "Got a light?" I hear a voice ask, a female voice. I stopped and walked a few steps closer, lighter in hand as I got closer. I could see that she was older and not actually good looking even though her voice was kind and soft. I handed her the lighter even though she wasn't holding anything in her hand "I'll suck your dick for 50 bucks" she told me. I told her to keep the lighter and I walked away, I think she yelled "30?" but I was too far and too disinterest to listen clearly. The walk wasn't long but I got to work late and my boss called me into his office, gave me a talk and sent me back into the yard, I was only late for more times for my duration there. I hated being a young blue-collar worker, I hated working for a living, I hated not enjoying my life, I hated being in the woods, I hated being alone, I hated the thought that if I work hard that it might actually pay off.

I came home again, got drunk again and started working on my screenplay. I don't intend to do anything with it, let alone write anything good but it passes the time when I write and actually write because one night I got drunk and mad while writing, threw my computer against the wall in my cabin and cried so I've been writing everything by hand since. My hands were already beat up from the work and the masturbating I did when I got home so when I gripped the pen it would ache. Holding the pen was hard like holding my cock and my fingers and knuckles started hurting more. I take a break from the pen and open another beer, tossing my empty can in a barrel that is outside on my deck. The barrel is full, full of empty beer cans and also full of water too, from all the rain that came in the past couple of days. The barrel is heavy but it has to be emptied because I will keep drinking more and because every time I toss a can in, it falls onto the ground and littering doesn't sit right with me... I drag and pull it to the edge of the deck and pull out all the cans until only the water remains and I tilt it over the edge watching the water splash out into the dirt wetting the soil. I finish the beer I was drinking and toss it into the now emptied barrel, no satisfaction is felt until I open a new beer, take a sip and look out at the lake, pushing my fingers through my long thick, dark brown hair. It's dry but also greasy but I wash it everyday so I know it's clean "If my body was as dirty as my mind people would think I'm mud" I whisper to myself. Sitting down now at my desk trying to write something. I'm surrounded by thousands of dollars' worth of paintings. I start to think about this girl who had loved me and that makes me rewrite an entire scene in the script. After the rewrite I light a candle and listen to 808s & Heartbreak on my record player and just sit there listening. I look over at those painting that are just leaning against each other against the wall and it's just such a fucking waste...

Since I'm the new guy at work I have to walk around the yard and pick up all the trash. Wet traps, wet plastic, wet wood. After my hands are damp and covered in dirt and smell bad; I eat my sandwiches at lunch with those same hands. "Maybe my future wife will come in today" I say to the boys at the lunch table, I say that everyday and they always laugh "You wouldn't even know what to do with a woman" one of the older guys jokes. I spend the rest of the day talking to the guys and not really working much. I fall asleep on the way home but wake up and start drinking when I get back to the cabin. Sometimes I watch television too, a 21-year-old drunk who yells at the screen with a hand down my pants like a real blue-collar worker. I'm getting good at yelling at the television and I'm never wrong or too loud, but that might just be the heavy amounts of booze in my skinny frame of a body. I thought I would try a writing exercise (drunk) I wrote the alphabet with my right hand, my dominant one, then again with my left. My printing isn't great but I blame it on me being a 'writer' and nobody who doesn't write, doesn't get it. I typically write when I'm too drunk to reevaluate my work and it would not make much sense to any person other than I. I know what I wrote, what I meant, what the exact thought was while I wrote it down. Printed what I said, meaning what I wrote. I really want to give myself a paper cut but I don't, I blame it on my intoxication but really, I'm just afraid that it would hurt but that sparks a thought; the pain of the cut would hurt less than the pain of knowing my writing will never be read. I really just want to play Oblivion... I slept in an hour and woke up really, really hungover. I slowly got up and managed to get my hurting body to a chair. I sat in that chair for one hour staring at nothing with my eyes closed until I feel better. Once I feel I can, I pray. I've been praying more than usual and when I reflect on that, I don't really know what to make of it. It's still early in the morning but the sun is starting to rise and I'm still feeling bad so I walk to the beer fridge and open it and grab a can and open that too. The first sip was awful, it made me feel sick again, but the second, the second sip was comforting. The beer was obviously cold but the taste was fresh. On my days off there really isn't a lot to do so I always drink early in the morning and faster throughout the day so I can pass out sooner; I'm scared to dream too so if I'm drunk enough my mind can't haunt me in my sleep, even though I pray the bad dreams still come...why? A few hours go by and the sun is out and up in the clear sky, the heat is heating me up and I'm on my dock enjoying the weather and a quiet day. In my blue plaid boxers drinking, the beers that I have with me have begun to warm up from the heat. I just finished mowing my lawn and have grass trimming on my legs. I don't have Wi-fi and my cellphone reception is not good but if I'm in the right spot I can manage to get a signal and use data to open up dating apps, I need to get laid. I keep seeing the same girls on them that I've already talked too in the surrounding areas and it annoys me, why are you still looking if I'm right here? If our conversations did not spark or intrigue me, I just stopped replying, maybe the blame could be put on me. "I need a hot girl with big tits, a big ass then I'll be happy" these words fumble out of my drunk mouth and I think I should take a nap before I cry and maybe break something.

There really is not much structure to this screenplay, I pretty much just picked up a pen one day and put it to the paper. Thankfully the paper I'm writing on is of the best quality. It feels strong it feels smooth and my pen hits hard on it but gracefully creates the words that are going through my mind. I only write at my desk inside my cabin, but I also want to be out in the sun. It's very humid though so I go back and forth to my dock and desk. It's very humid though and the fact I keep changing my setting is exhausting because the dock is down so many steps and going down and up and down and up them while drinking steadily and heavily is running a toll on me. I'm back at the desk now though, going through messages I sent out last night (or earlier today?) while I was drunk and horny. I asked three different girls to sit on my face, two of them replied but I spent the night alone, like every other night; it was the same and it was lonely... I left the city about seven months ago? Nobody has reached out to me to see how I'm doing...I guess the trees are my only friends now. I grab another beer and lay down on the grass in the yard, sun beaming a ray of light and heat right on my face. It felt like I was being suffocated and that made me think how I would rather be suffocated by a pretty girl's thick thighs. Or even my ex-girlfriend's' thighs, and her ass and her eyes. something like that won't happen to me again for a long time probably "Oh well" I say to myself and the grass, again taking another sip. It's much later in the day now, the day is transition into the evening and I'm very drunk at this time. I've also become very horny too so I start touching myself and I'm not sure why but I get this random memory from this one night I spent with this girl...It started in a busy bar one night, she was with her friends and I was with mine; Once Upon a Time when I had them. I remember our eyes meeting and we started dancing together and her great ass was rubbing on my great cock covered by my jeans, and her peach was covered by her jeans too. We then went back to her place (if I remember correctly) kissing and touching all before we even got through the apartment door. Once we got in, I sat on her couch and she sat on my lap, we kept kissing. She started grinding on me and bit at my neck and then tongued my ear (which I though was strange) she asked "Do you have any kinks?" I forget what I said after but I remember why I remember this because she then stopped and pulled back and looked at me and she farted. She said "That" and the whole night she would just do that while we fucked... I stop touching myself and go grab a glass of water. I hate my mind sometimes.

What if I just traveled to a foreign country? Just left and sat in a bar out of place and got drunk and listened to the local music. What if a girl walked into that bar and saw me and fell in love with me and took my heart and we spent the rest of our lives together in that country? "That sounds like a movie plot for a 'made-for-tv' movie script and it's just a stupid fucking dream. You don't find love, love finds you" I say to myself and write down that last part on paper, I start to think I could write a play about that... Maybe I'll just get a haircut.

Writing sober is something I do not do. But I tell myself it's too early to start drinking, so I get wasted on cheap coffee instead. Writing in the morning is also something I normally do not to; my hands and mind are typically preoccupied with sin and bad attempts at lust coming from the heartbeat in the veins of my morning wood. I've been sick the last couple of days though, basically bed ridden so the fact I have a boner is a good sign. I just wanted to be held by a hot, caring good looking woman while I puke into a bucket beside my bed. I prayed a lot while I was sick and I think God got annoyed and healed me... "Hold this bible in my heavy hands, asking the lord if he is my friend, silence. Not all friends talk often, the silent see more than others, I wish not to repent my sins again, they made me feel ill. Cleanse me Lord, but I need to hear it, hear your forgiveness. I will listen and won't sin again...I think. Snakes can scare me when I'm hungry, if I bite won't I bed fed? Won't I be full? No, because sin tastes like a peach and the apple is real ass; I am a mule, and I am never not working. I will always sin; thanks for listening my friend" ...I need some fresh air, so I step outside and take a deep breath. Then, it hit me, the urge of vomit overtakes me, and I rush off the deck to the tree line before it comes up through my throat and out my mouth onto the leaves grass and dirt. I'm bent over with my hands on my knees wishing it would just stop, tears running down my cheek as I keep vomiting. I'm able to stop for a second, laughing at the awful position I'm in "Fuck me" I say while wiping my mouth clean with my arm. I go back inside my cabin and look at some pornography that would make a normal person probably vomit but I'm all out. Now ashamed with what I just watched, feeling disgusted I go eat breakfast and suddenly have chocolate cake on my mind. After eating I'm surprised I didn't vomit again, but I still feel ill so I decide to open a beer and think two things. I'm just sick because I have not drank since I've been sick. Or if I drink fast enough, I can pass out and sleep. At my desk now I feel stumped about my screenplay as I look down at the good looking paper taking small sips from the can. I know the story lost its plot and I can't fix it, I keep playing with a pen my mind thinking about the last time I was sick from booze, which shifts to the last girl to take care of me while I was sick..."Are you feeling better?" I would want her to ask as I roll my head over into her thighs and look up at her blank face. "Not really" I would tell her "Poor baby" she would say and run her fingers through my hair, softly picking through the knots, I would close my eyes and she would give me a smile.

It's another day at work now and I fucked up a little bit in the forklift (that I should not be driving) and they guy I was with is another younger guy like me, so we didn't care and just laughed it off. We did not slack, surprisingly we did a lot of work but sometimes we would go into one of the warehouses in the back of the yard and jump on top of bundles of insulation and just kill time "I need a girlfriend" I would tell him "Don't we all?" he asked back "No, I don't think so. I just want one for sex" we both laughed and then spent the next hour talking and scrolling on our phones, I know he was texting girls he knew, and I wasn't texting anybody.

Again, I'm sitting in my (expensive) office chair by my (expensive) desk surrounded by these (expensive) painting biting my nails doing nothing but dealing with these waves of different emotions. I'm nervous, tired, excited, sad, rejected, down casted, depressed, dismal, boozed up and horny. I feel a lot of things in my train of emotions but at least I feel and think I'm okay. I look around for something to do, most people my age would probably be on their phones scrolling through social media and texting people but neither of those are options for me. I look at all the empty beer cans that seemed to have created their own carpet over the actual carpet. I open another beer, take of my pants and decide to clean up. Typically, it should be more disgusting with the number of cans, the stench and the stick but they are all pretty recently discarded so they aren't gross yet. After a while I am done cleaning and I don't know what time it is but I'm intoxicated but not yet sleepy so I decide to pull out this old guitar I have out of its case and strum the time away. I don't actually have any clue how to play but as I tighten one of the chords it snaps and I'm not sure how, but it slices my cheek. Some blood starts leaking out and I'm just sitting there thinking to myself "I really just cut myself from this instrument I can't even play" I sigh and look for something to wipe my cheek with, struggling I look like a lost bloody hound holding a guitar. "If I could play the guitar, I would probably have a girlfriend by now. And if I had a girlfriend I wouldn't be so lost and covered in blood and emotional dread" I say aloud while wiping my cheek with a towel (actually it's my cum rag because I couldn't find anything else to use) I'm still not tired soI started a fire in the pit. It's really warm and I'm sitting close to it, so I feel all the heat it is giving off. I do somewhat enjoy watching the wood burn while I relax and get more intoxicated, watching the flames and listening to the crackling sounds of the burning wood. Even though I do this on a regular routine and drink, and drink until I'm ill and the next day it's all a repeat. Part of me thinking it's becoming a problem but that's something I just have to deal with... I have nothing other than these beer cans and bottles of liquor and the trees but they stopped talking to me...

I'm getting to the point where I don't know how to end my screenplay. I've spent all this time writing and now I'm left with a mess of nothing. I can't think of any ideas and even if I could surely they all would be bad...Maybe if the protagonist dies? Then, then it can just end. "How do you create an explosion of creativity when the fuse gets blocked by the bricks molded into the wall of writers block" I say aloud to myself at my desk staring down at my blank notebook.