Write something. Chop-chop.

A lovely chat I just had with myself...

Write something.

Erm...

What about that cat?

The cat. The cat. The cat... Erm. The cat sat on the motherfucking mat. Ugh! 

Nice. Classy. Well done. If I haven’t told you before, you’re a grrrreat writer. You’ll be published in no time.

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.

They can't help. Why don’t you write about what you’re thinking?

You're what I'm thinking! And you won't hush yer mouth. Oh God, there’s a giant gaping hole where my brain used to be.

It’s fucked off on holiday, hasn’t it?

Yep and left you - the dregs - behind. Thanks for your support, as always.

You’ve been sat here for twenty minutes.

Stop timing me. Christ!

Well you need telling. Otherwise you’ll sit on yer arse all day staring at those leaves twitching. Thinking about whether you can make those leaves shiver into something beautiful and poetic. Maybe a story might grow out of one of those cute little buds there.

Apparently I can’t.

No. You can’t.

I’m going to make some beans on toast.

Are you joking?

No, I need brain food.

You need to keep your arse squished against that spongey chair cushion. Looks like its melted a bit though. Yer arse that is. You might wanna take control of that. Not now. But probably tomorrow.

I’m a shit writer and I’m fat - is that what you’re saying?

Don’t be stupid. Actually, don’t be stupider. You’re not fat, you’ve just put on a kilo or five. Better to be proactive about these things.

If you don’t leave me alone, I might cry.

Emotion. Good. Then you might be able to write something worth reading.

Fuck you.

Well actually, it’s fuck you whichever way you look at it.

                                                                                                                                                                                                       By Aimee Coleman © 2017