I don't know what's slower; my reply or my M.P.H. It occurred to me why legislation decided to make texting while driving an illegal practice; it turns your grammar into shit. Stopping at a red light, I text to my friend, "I have a bad case of writer's block."
The sky's a ticking time bomb and I need to get in and out of the laundromat before the storm hits. Trying to remember whether the 24 hour wash was on Broadway or Franklin, bells and whistles goes off from my lap. Carefully checking my phone, I read his message, "R U genuinely out of ideas or R U stuck thinking of ways 2 make your non-sexual thoughts erotic 4 your blog?" What an asshole!
It's quite challenging, pressing my key pad in a sequence of words and numbers while keeping my eyes on the road. Suddenly, I hear a car horn blare from behind me as the Honda Accord swerves around my black Mustang. Deep down, I worry if everyone thinks this way, "That's what U think of my creative process? LMAO!" Between the lengthening time of my latest blog and a very important deadline approaching, I think I have a spot of performance anxiety. My creative assembly is down for repairs.
Quickly, he texts, "Relax. Whip your cock out, go knuckle deep into your bum & don't stop until UR brilliant again." Instanly, my very visual imagination began to project what it'll look like to see him masturbate. He has a hot little body and a nice tool to match. Making a mental note, I add, "Watch-him-masturbate-while-dressed" to my 'when we meet' list. Sure, it'll take some Grey Goose and convincing, but I think he'll be up for it.
Replying at the speed of molasses, I fumble with my phone, "It's hard enough 2 text N drive...I'll crash! LOL"
"Stop being a pussy and pull that big, black dick out! LMGAO!"
Conversing with him, I was feeling more clever, "My 1st car WAS a stick shift!" He always says the weird shit I need to hear to stoke my creativity. That's why writers need to stick together.
By the grace of God, I made it to the laundromat in one piece. Mulling over a few things in my mind, every idea was so mediocre. Stuffing my comforter and sheets into the machine, his ringtone goes off in my pocket, "WELL?"
Confused, I text, "???"
"Did U whip it out?"
"LOL I'm in the laundromat now."
I could almost here his voice scream as I read, "That's Hot!" Instantly my head began to fill with crazy images...Bums looking aghast...The two middle-aged hookers whispering to each other and giggling...The twelve-year-old girl crying as her father yells, "Somebody do something!" I never masturbated with laundry detergent before, I wonder if it burns? I'm sure it does. "LOL I'm such an instigator. Now do it."
"I only jerk off in front of attractive audiences"
"LIAR! I read UR blog!"
"Just my luck, I'd bust right as the police haul me outta here...wait a minute...That IS kinda hot! LMAO!"
All night, via text, we entertained ourselves with crazy, rhetorical foolishness. He became Gay Hitler, supreme dictator of his naked mandingo army. I read his latest post and imagined being a millionare master with sexual bondservants. If anyone ever comes down with a case of writer's block, give Cogent Ascending a call! (Warning: you may experience accidental public masturbation and pesky car accidents.)