AN: I love writing like I'm insane...

It's better than pretending to be normal... XD

I have a headache.

My feet are swelling.

My gums are being pestered by some disease-or-another.

I can’t focus.

The room’s spinning.

I only have three days left.

The woman at the counter-- you know, the one who can’t stand that fucking dead-end-job of hers-- is probably alone in her one-room apartment with her dozen cats, much happier than I.

I stare at the screen blankly.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

I’m straddling the fine line between sanity and going over the deep edge, into a bottomless pit of despair, falling, falling, falling, until I hit the bottom-- a bed of sharp needles-- which cut up and under the skin like a wave of tiny paper-cuts never ceasing in their onslaught of misery and woe.

I get up from the seat, trying to tie what’s left of my head back together.

Three days.

Three days of staring into this blank screen so my editor can bitch at me when I come in with an entirely blank script on Wednesday, the consequences to which scenario could get my ass fired.

Another lost paycheck.

Another bitch-and-moan-fest from my wife.

Another several small mouths I can’t feed.

My dead ass wanders around the plush carpet. I’ve been told by my neighbors, or my neighbor’s friends, or the friends of my neighbor’s friends, that pacing helps. That it gets the mind in motion with the rest of your body.

Two-point-five measly and meandering minutes I wander, then reclaim my seat.

I shuffle through old memoirs that I had planned to finish once I had become a big hot-shit writer. Once I had hit the big-time, with all the other big names, like Stephen King, Edgar Allan Poe, and Charles Dickens. “A writer” I said I had wanted to be when I grew up, with rosy cheeks and big brown eyes filled up with promises of a bright and brimming future.

Gone is that fucking fool.

I take a sip of coffee with an unsteady hand.

My mind is back to spinning uncontrollably, a teeter-totter on a sick and twisted merry-go-round, spinning ever-faster as I try to get my eyes to snap back into focus.

I press my head to the desk, trying to recall my editor’s smooth and mocking tone, but her words had slipped into one ear and out the other.

Wednesday.

Oh, how I hated the damn word.

Trailing in-and-out of my subconscious-ness, I think of suicide.

Putting the gun in my mouth, tasting the cold iron as it slips into the back of my throat, and just pulling the trigger. My wife-- my kids-- my editor-- the woman behind the counter-- all gone in the one flash of bright and intense and blinding light that follows a bullet being lodged into the brain of a man with no where else to go.

I let the air in, blow it back out, and press the tab-- it’s as good a place as any to start.

I mess with words-- combining them together, making run-ons and fragments and blatant nonsense-- anything to make my brain start up.

The

Theumeral

Theumeral andjalo, wofnfc

Anything, just as long as my mind starts clicking together.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

I have only three days left.

I pound the keys, frustration wracking my body like an angry and unimaginably outraged bull about to rampage and tear the board right from the monitor.

ANYTHING…

ANYTHING!

I throw the keyboard across the room, the chord ripping out of the back of the monitor. The machinery smacks into the wall, each button flailing out of its compartment like a shower of grey squares. The intricate circuitry cracks apart, the plastic board breaks in half.

I go for the monitor next.

I care not that it’s still connected to everything else-- it’s my enemy. Its blank whiteness seems to be begging me with a distant voice to stop, but the beast that has flared up into my eyes and inner-voice has ceased to listen, ceased to care.

I slam the thing into the wall just before the monitor blinks off in fear with the force of an unstoppable train, hurdling into the chasms of oblivion, on a course set for its doom, eager to see its death. Glass shards spray up and out, cascading like a flock of paper-cranes soaring high into the air.

My wife no longer matters.

My kids no longer matter.

My editor no longer matters.

And that woman behind the counter most certainly does not matter.

Not anymore.

They’re nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

The sound of the impact is most pleasing-- it rings in my ears.

Feeling less than accomplished, I take the hard drive and drive it against the wall, too, just to hear the noise it makes as it dies.

It’s a sharp, sickening noise, like a crunching-crack, like a hammer thwacking itself into the deadened skull of a rotted human corpse.

I started laughing somewhere between the destruction of the monitor and the demolition of the hard drive.

I still haven’t stopped.

My laughs come out raspy, tired, harsh. My lungs are burning, but I can’t care anymore. Not anymore.

I fall onto the glass-and-electronics-showered floor, my heart racing to the rate of humming-bird wings, my chucklings ceasing slowly.

My computer, and all its conventions-- trashed, wasted, sitting beneath me, never to be used again.

Another paycheck will have to go to buying new hardware.

Another paycheck my wife will bitch about.

Another paycheck that won’t go to feeding tiny and starving mouths.

Another paycheck that I probably won’t get because my editor won’t give it to me on Wednesday.

Another paycheck I most certainly will not be giving to that damn woman behind the counter.

I still have a headache.

My feet are still swelling.

My gums are still being pestered by some disease-or-another.

I still can’t focus.

The room’s still spinning.

I still have only three days left.

That woman behind the counter is probably still happier than me.

And I still have nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Well, if you read, please review!! I'd love to know what you think. But no, "DUDE, you are MESSED UP!!"

I'm already quite aware of this, thank you. : D