I was told to write a short story about, who the fuck knows what.
So I sat down and thought. I thought some more..... Then I came to a conclusion (as all good brainstorms should). I am an idiot who cannot ever write a short story.
What was I doing in high school, when I was supposed to be writing short stories; or at least reading them?
Was I staring at the girls tits next to me?
Was I thinking of the future?
Was I reading?
Was I watching the clock?
Most likely I was staring at the girl's tits next to me. When I was supposed to be learning about writing short stories, or at least reading one. Most likely I was thinking of, hopefully sometime seeing those tits without that stupid shirt on. The one that says "Stop staring, start tipping". When is my next class?
So alone I sit, awaiting inspiration. Waiting for a higher being to touch my skull and make me smart. Waiting for somebody fun to burst through my door without invitation. Somebody spontaneous, somebody startling. With an apple martini turned to watermelon(Ran out of apple pucker), I sit here. As I do every night.
At a blank computer screen.
Waiting for the words to float out of thin air, around my skull and to my fingers.
I know your waiting for it. You are waiting for the "that's when it happened" The "Then I saw".
But, there isn't one. Just a sad sorry night without inspiration, lacking any real purpose. And the only conclusion perceived is I am an idiot who cannot ever write a short story.