Fucking Milton

Momma said there'd be days like this.
I wonder if writer's block was a result of some chemical imbalance. I wonder if I'd had a few more greens during the day I would be churning out the next...something or another. I would cite the rum as a hindrance, but it didn't seem to slow Hemingway down. And fucking Milton was blind.
I'm probably just pissed off my fact-checker called-in the second day in a row. Probably tired of me asking her things I could have just as easily Googled just to keep her busy; hey, it's my dime. What she's probably doing is looking for another job.
At least I haven't heard Entroop moping around today. What kind've name is that? Jewish? En-troop. E-N-Troop. They probably just fucked it up at Ellis Island. This would be a perfect thing for my fact-checker to do.
I'm ready for this relative quiet to...I want to say, "explode", but that doesn't sound right. "This silence is pregnant with the posibility-scratch that-potential to...," Ok, really? What I'm waiting for is the phone to ring, and when it does, it'll be Harenthal.
And this is what he'll say:



I don't even feel like going in to what he'll say. It'll be bad. I don't even feel like thinking about it.

He's going to really blow his top when he figures out my posts are only making sense if the reader is checking out the Orbital Anvil Drop Station blog, too. Since, technically, O.A.D.S. is the competition. Then, he'll ask me, genius that I am, why I'm giving all those particular posts the same title. Because "Segmented 2" didn't sound good?

I think I'm going to get out, maybe get something to eat. Step away from it, come back. Something will bubble up to the surface, especially if I run into a zebra ninja or something at the pizza place.

I grab my keys.

The phone rings.