Woe is my creation

Emptiness is not the absence of something, but the presence of anything. Or something like that, I don’t know - but I know that every single time I see that stupid poster in my mum’s house, it makes me want to rip a hole through it. Until now. Staring at the absence of anything, (I’ve got to take a better look at it the next time I’m there, what does it actually say?!) I’m moved by the nothingness of it all.

Blank.

My canvas is blank.

I’m staring at white nothing. But white is a color and colors exist, ergo my canvas has something (LOOPHOLE!)

Oh god, wait, there’s an insect on it - ew! Come on! Fly off, shoo. Shoo. Shoo! It won’t fly off… or maybe, I can keep it as an accent piece? (No, no, that’s insane)

Maybe clapping loudly next to it will work, it works with my cat! (HAH)

No, oh jeez, no! Mr. Whiskers stop itahvywdebncsijod!

I hate my life.

I’ve got to take a nap or something, I’m just going to lie down for two seconds and just —---- breathe.

_____—-----_____

NO!

Ugh, come on - hmm! Mr. Whiskers, how many times have I told you not to jump up onto my stomach, you naughty boy! Who’s my cutie pie, who is? Are you? Jeez! Do you have to scratch my everytime you mean feline? Look at what you’ve done, do I even have any ointment left? (Every single time this happens, I should not have agreed to take you in but stupid Jeff somehow convinced me) and - why is this still on?

And what are you pouting about? I wasn’t the one to raise my claws, you apologize to me!

(I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that. You know I love you right? Come here, come to me… ooh! Or run away)

Okay, alright, I can do this, here we go.

Emptiness is not the absence of something, but the promise of nothing. That’s not it. Emptiness is not the absence of anything but the promise of something… and that is the cheesiest thing ever. Why do I care? Promise of something… and we’re walking. A brand new day, the forging of a… no, a blossoming new relationship, where the same life takes on a different meaning. What is that sound?!

Stupid Jeff with that stupid oboe! Stop. It. Noooow!

Why? I just, I just want to lie down again.

My ceiling looks like cake. I want cake, but there’s no cake in the fridge. Wait? I can just bake a cake! Let’s go!! Let’s have some cake, let’s have some cake - butter, eggs, flour, sugar… sugar. Damn it. (Damn it, damn it, damn it!)

I hate my life.

My stomach sounds like the engine of a twenty year old bike that’s about to give out, I can’t take it anymore, I need cake. Or food. Or one minute of peace uninterrupted by the thoughts of how useless my day has been, and by that extension, my life. Lunch. I need lunch. Pasta, chicken, garlic bread. Now I’ve got to wait for five minutes?

Emptiness is emptiness, that’s why it's called that. Like my stomach, which I’ll fill with fettucini in… two minutes. Or like my head, which cannot come up with a single idea to put on that white sheet sitting in my room. But all of that is fine, because carbs are brain food, and I’m about to stuff myself with them. Ooh, that smells good! I should thank mum for stocking up. Ssss!! Let’s go.

Waedehupowbc!! Hot! HOT! Water (Water!)

_______—-__

Time for lunch Mr. Whiskers! You don’t have to wait until your food stops being a scalding ball of magma, come on, eat up! Let’s get you some water too, yeah? Eat up kiddo.

My turn, pasta, chicken on garlic bread. Hmmm, that’s good. I bet you wish you could eat this huh? Don’t you dare give me that look! This is my chicken, and if you want your evening treat, you cannot get yourself full off of my plate. Yeah, that’s what I thought. Maybe we go out for a walk in the evening before she comes over, and we better get ready for some drama the minute she steps through that door because we both know she’s not letting us off the hook.

______—--____

Emptiness is not the evil, where the absence of thought and vision take centre stage, a certain serenity lurks in the background, ready to be of aid to the one willing to accept.

I want cake.

Emptiness is not the evil, where the absence of thought and vision take centre stage, a certain serenity lurks in the background, ready to be of aid to the one willing to accept.

I want cake.

(End of transcript)

‘What… What is this?’ she turns to face me. ‘What… WHAT?’

‘Things may have gotten a little out of hand…’

‘How? What happened?’

‘I told you, I haven’t been able to write properly for the last month, and you kept telling me we needed to submit something, so I sat down to work on it and then, well, you heard.’

A guttural growl escapes her throat. ‘This is the worst thing I’ve ever read.’

‘Okay! Alright, it’s not a testament to my actual writing, but it’s not terrible… it has some potential?’

‘This thing never leaves this computer unless it’s going into a dustbin, what the hell am I supposed to tell Dustin?’

‘I don’t know, tell him he’s an editor and you’re an agent and your writer has a truly whimsical case of writer’s block!’

She shoots me a look to rival that of Mr. Whisker’s. ‘I’m going to kill you.’

‘I will sic my cat on you.’

‘I cannot believe I ever trusted you to be able to write on your own, I need to stay on top of you and make sure you get down to it. Amateur mistake!’

‘Mum can you please calm down?’

Her nose twitches and flares. ‘You promised you had something.’

‘I never said it was good!’

‘And my poster is not stupid!’