You know what the most uninspiring thing in the world is?
That damn blinking cursor.
The cursor always gets the last word. It's never affected by what you just wrote, it's always one step ahead of your last thought, flickering lazily, as if to say, "Are you quite finished? You're really going to leave it like that? You actually think that sounds good? That someone's brain will actually take the time to process those poorly composed imposter glyphs into anything resembling even a subjective truth? The delete button is right up there, are you sure you don't want me to strike all this nonsense from the permanent stone record before you hit 'carve'? Well. . . . . . . . if you say so."
Well FUCK you, cursor, and the endless lily white virginity of your little carte blanche playground. I'm going slam my head through your drywall just to trail blood all over the carpet, I'm going to spin donuts on the lawn of your obscenely immaculate soul, I'm going to eat poet shit and puke it all up into the fishtank of your ancestors, and when linguistic forensics roll up, they're going to see the intricately sloppy handiwork, the recklessly pornographic arrangement of the ceramic gnomes, they'll rope the scene off with their jealous red ink, and declare the place sacred ground zero, another no-man's land of run-on irreverence and grammatical gall.
You'll flee the scene like you always do, abandoning ground to the advancing wave of freight train thought, typos be damned.
And one more writer's block becomes mine.
I think that's why I prefer typewriters. Typewriters let you beat your words into existence, and the writing which they generate is that much tougher for the experience. Cursors are for pussies.
That damn blinking cursor.
The cursor always gets the last word. It's never affected by what you just wrote, it's always one step ahead of your last thought, flickering lazily, as if to say, "Are you quite finished? You're really going to leave it like that? You actually think that sounds good? That someone's brain will actually take the time to process those poorly composed imposter glyphs into anything resembling even a subjective truth? The delete button is right up there, are you sure you don't want me to strike all this nonsense from the permanent stone record before you hit 'carve'? Well. . . . . . . . if you say so."
Well FUCK you, cursor, and the endless lily white virginity of your little carte blanche playground. I'm going slam my head through your drywall just to trail blood all over the carpet, I'm going to spin donuts on the lawn of your obscenely immaculate soul, I'm going to eat poet shit and puke it all up into the fishtank of your ancestors, and when linguistic forensics roll up, they're going to see the intricately sloppy handiwork, the recklessly pornographic arrangement of the ceramic gnomes, they'll rope the scene off with their jealous red ink, and declare the place sacred ground zero, another no-man's land of run-on irreverence and grammatical gall.
You'll flee the scene like you always do, abandoning ground to the advancing wave of freight train thought, typos be damned.
And one more writer's block becomes mine.
I think that's why I prefer typewriters. Typewriters let you beat your words into existence, and the writing which they generate is that much tougher for the experience. Cursors are for pussies.
You're the first/only person so far to answer the question of the day, and I think it's just as well because I don't know how anyone coudl fuckin beat that. Damn. You get the award.