Bragging Rights

Boxing Before Stupid Rules

Cliff Notes: He beats the ever-loving fuck out of him, after waiting until he got tired.

*****

Washington D.C. December 21, 1757

Writer's block. Writer's block. Writer's block. I need to start typing something to think of something to write about. That's what I am doing.

That's funny. 

I swear.

Wait it'll get funnier. If you think about how stupid a way to begin any story that was. "I don't have anything to talk about."

"It was the best of times. It... yeah that's all I got." -Charles Dickens.

See? I can rap, on paper. Almost in real life. 

Writer's block. Writer's block. I am sitting looking out the window, in the cafe, of The U Street Hostel. Guess what street it's on!?

Yesterday I was on K Street. Also Wisconsin Avenue. The day before I was around Howard University. Guess why?

Pretty girls everywhere.

If I have fireworks going off above me as I "tear" through D.C. I could be a little, more noticable. No one, walks through a city like I do. I SCARED A CAR, yesterday. By walking at them in their lane glaring like I was headed for the O.K. Coral and they were in my way.

Writer's block. Writer's block. Writer's block. Writer's block. I could keep going but I should say something else. What now? As long as I don't stop the interior monologue and keep typing I can keep saying something, as "whatever" as this is. Whatever. A great filler word. See I can keep going even when I don't want to. Except that's no fun. What's fun is having something good to say. As I am building to. Except there are a few small... good distractions, around. Three. Girls. All? Or one of which I would love to talk to. For a long time. While naked, hopefully. 

Because they are nearby I have trouble concentrating on playing with this plastic and metal laptop and staring at it like it's really important. I am doing this, waiting for what I really want to do. Which is non-stop love. From one girl. Forever. HOW I GET TO THAT POINT IS HOW I CAN JUSTIFY THE IDEA OF A FOURSOME. ONE OF THE FOUR OF THESE GIRLS MIGHT BE #HER.

Not Hillary Clinton. I wouldn't be able to have sex with her. FIVESOME. Another girl walked in.

"Dancing, to the [hostel-house] rock." ELVIS! Yeehaw!! When a song comes on I really like my writing improves tremendously. It's my achilles heel. The better the music (or lack thereof sometimes), the better I can think/act/be.

Although new music is a different kind of inspiration. Writer's block. Writer's block. Writer's block this works. If you're a writer (and anyone who writes is a writer this is not a gift from the non-existent Jesus) and you can't think of what to write, just write "writer's block" until you get so tired of typing that you then type "I am so tired of typing "writer's block" and viola!"

The trick is keeping it going. Even I, Hunter S. Thompson heir, have trouble continuing the discussion. Because I am listening. To every sound like it's on the sonar of the U.S.S. West Virginia (the nuclear missile submarine). Not that I've done that. But almost.

I heard the two girls in the other room laugh. And the coffee machine. The Marvin Gaye. The girl behind me talking to her potential? boyfriend. He is overmatched. I am hoping she notices that I am better than he is. At least as a matter of principle. I don't mind girls being with other boys but I don't mind if they know I'm better, too.

They left. She didn't say to her date "if only some other boy maybe typing on a laptop would help me get rid of you, I would be happy." Because then I could have gotten rid of him, and been happy, too. She and I together, for the rest of the life of the universe. 

A girl with the clandestine-espionage (spy) skills to 1. see I'm the best (that's easy) 2. know I am thinking about her 3. be ready for anything and 4. make me laugh as she asks for my assistance doing something I love to do, is who I want. 

Is that asking too much? 

WE INTERRUPT THIS PROGRAM FOR A SPECIAL NEWS BULLETIN. ARTIFICIAL INTELLIGENCE IS LIKE ARTIFICIAL ANYTHING. IT SUCKS COMPARED TO THE REAL THING.

Robots! Before I complain too much, remember... 

(A minute later)

HAND DISPENSER!! (I went to wash my hands) That too must be automated. Vacuum cleaner, then the hand dispenser. 

What's wrong with turning a crank? YANKEE YUPPY TECH FAGS ARE RUINING THIS COUNTRY. I want paper towels. I do not need a motion sensor, electricity and a motor to get them.

Sweeping a room. Also, not hard. I don't need a fucking house cat made of plastic tripping over my chair, which is what just happened. The Roomba or whatever the fuck got stuck on my chair. Twice. I wanted to throw the fucking thing into the floor and break it into ten thousand pieces. But I restrained myself.

I also don't want a real cat. Or dog. Because while I enjoyed having a dog, three, I don't want another. I want a girl.