I Can't Fucking Write

Slice me up into horsemeat and feed me to the Corgis already

Dear friends

I write to you from the year of their lord, 2025. Somehow the egg-shaped flux capacitor located partway between my anus and marble sack malfunctioned. As I hit eighty-eight miles per hour, instead of being launched into the glorious decade of 5255-5235, I was flung sideways into this strange time.

I’ve been trying to explain to the Urbanists here how a proper grasp of reality is impossible until one embraces all parts of the fifty-seven-fold spectrum. But not that these sad badgers would even know what an urbanist is. I believe the major habit of this era is to take a series of imaginary beliefs, form them into a story with a central character, and then ironically have that central character manifest situations that will hold up and verify those beliefs and hence protect the central character.

Ya know what I’m saying?

No. Well, that’s because we’ve hit that point in the annual solar cycle where the creative writing waterfall dries up like Gwyneth Paltrow’s fanny candle in the wind. N yeah, I’m old enough to know that this kind of crap happened to all the greats. The famous writer/anal sculptor Terry Daniels once said,

“I’m old enough to realise that this kind of crap happened to all the greats. The tap of creativity comes only by divine intervention. Despite the efforts of the greatest writers, they could not control the flow but only sit, bundled in a pathetic ball, waiting for the rain.”

And they all dealt with these dry spells in different ways. Some of them wanked excessively. Some of them fucked badgers excessively. Some of them wrote anyway and just produced a long fuzzy line of turd.

For me, I just sit here in the garden, staring into the abyss and feeling the cortisol eat its way into my frontal lobes, and wondering if it’s worth any of this crap since we’ll all be fucking dead soon unless Musk invents some bionic whatever.

I take another long drag on the squalid pipe and breathe out another smokey breath, watching the cloud dance and form the shape of Kim Basinger’s left tit before it disappears over the broken fence, never to be seen again. It’s a fucking symbol. Everything is a fucking symbol.

I’m tryin’ to get a fucking sun tan as a substitute for good writing.

N, that's always a fucking challenge when ya got fresh white Scottish skin with caramel freckles more numerous than the sex crimes of Hollywood. N someone told me fifteen minutes on each side was adequate to burn the shit out of a scotch fillet, but for human skin, it’s just enough to gradually work up yer melatonin without burning the shit out of yersen. N yeah, it's another fucking symbol. Everything’s a damn symbol.

N it feels damn good this sun. It feels like being in the damn sauna, but fresher, like someone is cooking me, ready to fucking eat me like a damn Christmas turkey. N Im sippin on this lime water now bereft of the creatine, which made me as angry as a cockless alligator, much angrier than I am now.

I Finally went to therapy for my anger issues.

FRANK: “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been 3654 days since my last therapy session.”

THERAPIST: You know you don’t have to say that, Frank.

I tell her I know that and it was a joke.

THERAPIST: Do you think you use humour as a way to avoid doing serious work?

And we’re off. Thirteen seconds in, and already this spectacled wench thinks she’s got me pegged.

FRANK: “Maybe, but also, I’m becoming more of a cunt every day.”

THERAPIST: Why are you doing that, Frank? Are you angry at something?

FRANK: “WEL, yeah, I’m angry at some stuff. But I’m also tryin to wank off my shadow self since that’s what Jung said, give your shadow self a reach around.”

THERAPIST: Frank, I’m not sure that’s what he said, but I understand. You’re trying to embrace your dark side.

FRANK: “Not really. I’m just working not to neglect it. But it easily becomes a habit.”

THERAPIST: So you are angry.

FRANK: “Yeah. I’m also angry cos I can’t fucking write anymore.”

THERAPIST: What do you mean anymore? Was there a time when you could write?

FRANK: “WEL, yeah, I think so. So now I’m getting this job in a factory cos ya can’t make a living from writing unless yer write the Jack Flashcock series or ya write corporate schmuck for corporate schmucks.”

THERAPIST: Well, why don’t you do that? At least you will be writing for a living.

If only she knew how many times I’d heard that crap. To a proper writer, it’s like saying, why don’t you fuck the syphilitic tramp behind seven-eleven since you enjoy sex?

FRANK: “You saying that reminds me of this ad where the CEO of Save The Children is speaking to the audience with a backdrop of some Sudanese children about to get eaten by Leopards. N he’s like, For $30 a month, you can become one of 1400 donors to contribute to my $500,000 yearly salary. The world doesn’t need another soul sellout.”

THERAPIST: What do you think is behind your writer’s block, Frank?

FRANK: Well, look, yesterday I went to see my Aunt Fanny. She’s old now. She lives at the Edgecliff Retirement Home for Old Sluts.

And yeah, I know yer like, Frank, that’s not a real place. And yer right. It’s not.

But I went to see her anyway. Nurse Mildred told me everyone was outside playing volleyball except for Fanny, who refuses to do any high-intensity sports and instead sits by her window, weeping all day.

“Hi, Fanny,” I said as I walked into her room which smelt like old piss and boiled potatoes and Chanel number minus five.

“Oh, hi, Edward,” said Fanny, wiping her tears away. And yeah, Edward was the name of her son who died during a fight with a randy goat who’d also been on the fucking creatine. So I was fine about pretending to be Edward to make her happy and also cos she’d slip me fifties from her stash inside her first edition of Twilight.

I asked Fanny why she was always crying, and she told me that she couldn’t have an orgasm anymore.

N I’d honestly expected her to say something about being lonely or missing her husband or something.

I cleared my throat.

“Is it because your fanny doesn’t work anymore, Fanny?” I asked, not wanting to go deeper but always wanting to be as helpful as possible.**

“Oh, no, Edward,” she said. “The outside of me may seem very crisp and dried out, but my fanny still gets extremely wet. Would you like me to show you?”

And sure, I know you’re thinking, Jesus, Frank, she’s an old lady and also you’re her son. But ya know, I’m not her son. We’re not even related by blood. And I’ve always been curious to see what an old woman's fanny looks like.

But fine, if you’re gonna be a pussy about it, let’s just say I declined.

“No thanks, Fanny,” I said. “But what is it then that is preventing you from climaxing?”

“It’s just that every time I think about getting fingered by a young man, I suddenly remember that I’m going to die soon, and my cooch dries up like an oyster in the sun.”

N I relate to that, ya know? Cos, every time I think about the fleeting nature of existence, my writing cooch dries up like an oyster in the sun.

THERAPIST: Wow, that’s very profound, Frank. So, what you’re saying is that your fear of death is blocking your creativity?

FRANK: Well, I wish I could say that was true. But it’s just another lie. Aunt Fanny doesn’t even exist. I’m just trying to write myself out of this shit.

** Note for the Americans. Fanny, in this context, means vagina, not anus.

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