a chip off the old block

 

And I'm blocked. All symptoms present, the hopelessness, the frustration, the anger, the withdrawal, the whining, the self help books. Not fun when I want to write and I don't want to at the exact same time, like some cosmic joke with a smiley face and a sad face on either side of my tarot card

I feel uninspired, dull and pathetic. And untruthful, lazy, dishonest. My truths are the kind that are never presented with a witness present but now I want to sit out in the sunshine and market my wares, like some plastic dollar store mannequin. I want to sell out, and I have not a damn thing to sell.

So I plan a dramatic death. I will be eighty, or possibly seventy, based on whether I start smoking with stress or not. I will have off-white hair, same shade as a bedroom wall in the old Asian Paints ad.

I will wear a brown shawl with nice elephant-and-chariot embroidery and a fringe. Then I will trip over it and fall down the stairs. Wherever I am, there will be a staircase, after sixty, I will refuse to live in any house without a staircase. I will scream of course, up to down with artistic volume control, and break a few bones. It will be intensely painful, and I will be noble and very brave

Someone will come running, maybe a husband, maybe a kid, maybe a neighbor, maybe a dog or a cat. I will be lying there, very still, very dignified, moaning slightly with pain. Someone will ask if I am okay (or possibly bark or miaow). Then I will sit up and say very clearly "I have something to say to this world"

And then I will close my eyes, smile contentedly and die. That will be my revenge on the human race