Daily Prompt: The Little Things count most of all

Maybe, just maybe I can dodge this “writer’s block” that I seem to have muscled my way into. Rumor has it that “The Block” can be conquered by a good double espresso and a sugar crueller. I suppose it might mean I’ll need to swim a few extra laps this summer in order to lose that seal-like appearance I have managed to acquire, but sometimes a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do. This man has gotta eat another crueller (at least I have broken the habit of putting sugar in my joe!). As I sit here waiting for my coffee; I wonder how I am going to sit on the beach this summer, all pasty and white with my blubber all hanging off me. I try not to think of it too hard.–It is like looking directly into the sun without one of those cardboard solar eclipse things. But, it is certainly an eclipse. Gee, I only came into the coffee shop to get a cup of joe, and all what do I get for my troubles? I get a load of guilt about how pasty, white, and flabby I’ll look with no other possible outcome. On the up side, I think I just broke the writer’s block thingy that has been holding me back. The price might have been pretty steep, kinda high. But, I will either look at things from the perspective of the pasty, flabby white thing that I’ll be, or I can write up some sort of documentary about a pasty, middle-aged writer on the brink of suicide. That all sounds like pretty good stuff! I might even get an Emmy or some kind of crappy award before I put a slingshot through my brain. Is that even possible? I am very certain that I will never be able to pull off the suicide gig. I am just not that type. Is there a suicide “type,” a category? I don’t know, I’m not much of a psychiatrist, or a psychologist.

(Voice over: Over here, to our right, we have our over-the-hill, lost, pasty suiciders’; and over, a little farther, are our beach-combing sling-shot wielding nit whits.

And the Award goes to …drum roll, please…the pasty nit wits! Thunderous applause for the nit whits). I am delighted, ecstatic that I am a nit whit I can barely hear myself under the roar. ” I would like to thank…uh…my mom, my Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, I’d like to thank Tim Tebo, because he is a football flinging god, who has yet to be discovered. I’d probably switch it up a little by thanking Larry, Moe and Curly…(the music chimes in… violins, and trombones, a little electric guitar). What is life without the extras, without the Stooges?  

Damn, espresso, now I’ll never get to sleep and I’ll just be up thinking about fat nit whits.  Hey, maybe there is an antidote to espresso. Kinda like Cryptonite? Maybe, I should just stop drinking coffee. No. That would be too easy, there has to be another way. I guess I will have to quit coffee the old fashion way and hope that it doesn’t come back. I’ll have to quit cold turkey, the same way the kids got over their psychological wounds of Khe Sanh from the Me Kong Delta and “Apocalypse Now” film.


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