It’s time for me to break up with Writer’s Block.
If Writer’s Block was a person, he would be five feet eight. He is in his 40s but he looks much older. He has a greasy blond comb over on his freckled bald head. His face is sallow. His jowls are flabby and droopy. He admittedly never looks in a mirror. He has stray gray hairs that come out of his chin. I don’t know why there isn’t more evidence of a beard. Maybe that’s the most dramatic his beard gets. He has a dull stud in one ear, which has hairs and wax coming out of them. He’s wearing a faded light blue t-shirt. It’s torn around the neck and there are little rips in the crew neck. It’s an inconsistent color. Faded, bleach stained. Heavy perspiration stains in the arm pits and back. Writer’s Block has boobs that sit on his expansive belly. There are tears and stains on the belly of the shirt that he doesn’t even see.
I brought him to a local diner so he wouldn’t cause a scene.
The waitress approached our table with his order. Apparently, he’s a regular here and she can smell him coming.
His meal is a huge triple cheeseburger. The bun glistened with grease. It looks good on the plate, but the moment he picks it up with his fat fingers, it loses all of its attraction for me. He squeezed it in such a way that the mayo and the ketchup squeezed out the bottom. The patty slid out the bottom, splatting ketchup and mustard on the table.
Writer’s Block took a huge bite. He squinted his eyes shut. He chomped with his mouth open. He chewed and snorted and wheezed and smacked. Writer’s Block is so disgusting. I have to look away.
I wanted to order something with the intention of shaming Writer’s Block. I wanted to say, in my most smug, self righteous voice. “I’ll just have a Cobb salad.” Writer’s Block won’t look me in the eye.
But I stare hard. I’m turning my date with Writer’s Block into a passive aggressive food fight.
The waitress tapped the pen on the pad and said, “So, he’s paying?”
“YES!” I made sure that the waitress heard that clearly.
I don’t wait for him to respond to me. “Look,” I say, “I think you are a fake. ”
He stops chewing enough to look at me directly.
He chewed and looked up to one side, as if he was thinking. That’s another thing I hate about Writer’s Block. He acts like he is thinking. He’s never had an original thought. He never says much of anything.
I lost it. “Writer’s Block, you disgust me.” I raised my voice. “But you are ugly. I really don’t like being seen with you in public. You need a shower. Since you aren’t a person, I don’t have to worry about offending you. I want to tell you how much I loathe your very presence.”
He shrugged and took another bite of that greasy burger.
“I’m leaving you forever.” I stood up to leave. I had lost my taste for the Cobb Salad. “Go find another writer to torment.”