raison une

“ All right, let’s do this again. So… why do you write?”

“ I don’t. I haven’t, no, not for awhile now.”

“ Why not?”

“ Well… how can I explain this… uh, well, o.k you know that television commercial where the guy is sitting at his computer? He’s sitting there surfing along and all of a sudden he gets an error message saying he’s reached the end of the internet? Well that’s me. I’ve reached the end of my memories. The end of imagination…”

“ That’s absurd.”

“ Is it? Is it too difficult to believe there’s nothing left?"

" Yes."

" Or, let’s put it this way: there’s been a hostile takeover in my head, and the right side of my brain has assumed control. I've completely lost all of my creativity.”

“ What about all of this bullshit you used to spout about blogging being the ‘new new?’ About how you loved to interact with other writers and anonymously and instantly exchange ideas/compliments/mutual dick sucking? What happened to all of that?”

“ It’s got old. Fuck, I don’t know. I’ve got so much other shit to worry about these days."

" Yeah, I check your website everyday for updates and everyday I find nothing."

" Let me ask you something... what happens when you overtap a maple tree? It fucking dies. Thats what happens. I don't want to force it.”

" Bullshit. According to you, when you actually do write anything nowadays, you're already dead. Give me a better reason."

" Boredom? Laziness? Lack of time? There's three. Who was it that said, 'it is what it is?' Well... it is what it is. There you have it."

“ Yeah... whatever. Hey, congrats on your new promotion by the way… You're playing in the big leagues now kid.”

“ Thanks. It's my time.”

" It is what it is."