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  _I_R_ |    ||    |\    \
   M E  |    ||    |/____/       Writer's Block
   P A  |    ||    |\    \       ir file number 080
   U L  |____||____| |____|      released 11.21.00
   L I  |    ||    |\|    |      by Hikaru Chow
   S T  |____||____| |____|      we're just fucking with your mind.
   E Y   even_god_reads_it

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	The sun is out. I unwind my blinds to let the sun light up my room
so I don't have to waste power. I walk around my house, get a wild cherry
Capri-Sun-maybe this will help me figure out what to write.

Five minutes later I still find myself watching the blinking thingy on Word. 
Hum de dum. 

	'Little Johnny was lying in bed when he heard a thump above his 
hea---' Delete, delete, delete. To cheesy, I wrote a story like that in the 
third grade and all the kids laughed at me then. Here I am, off to stare at 
the blank document once again.

	The sun has now set; the house grows dimly lit as the six o' clock 
news blares into the silent house. My mother calls me to come to dinner. The 
dinner table once again silent, just like it always has been. The paper 
rustles, my mother's jaw goes up and down in a rhythmic manner, and my mind
wanders trying to figure out what to write.

	"Ai-ya you don't eat enough tonight!" scolds my mother in choppy 
English.

	"I'm fine Mom," I reply in choppy Vietnamese. You can't eat when you
have a lot on your mind. 

	And the table becomes silent once again. The paper rustles, my
 mother's jaw chewing, and my mind wonders. 

	The TV no longer blares the top stories of the night, but instead has
been changed to a different channel that now blares in studio laughter. 
Dinner ends and so does the show. From in studio laughter to Sunday night 
cartoons. One show after the next, animation after animation, and still I 
find myself unable to write anything on paper.

	Time is catching up with me. The living room lights are off. The 
dishwasher has finished whirling. Teeth being brushed and tonight's top 
stories are being repeated once again by weary eyed news reporters.

	There are tons of things I can write about.

	Write for instance about how life would be if we walked on our hands
and greeted with feet. Or perhaps I can scrawl on paper a sappy love poem 
with 'his eyes are like the shooting stars,' and 'love like the ocean.' I 
can write a rant opposing something controversial or just plain rant about 
how stressful it is to be an emotional teenager. There are my struggles and 
obsessions, and I can even start writing about a character name Stu if my 
brain felt like working.  

	The hours pass. The night becomes silent. Even the ants that invade 
my house when we forget-or become lazy to clean the sink are asleep. The day
 has ended and the wee hours of the next day have started. Still I attempt 
to write something that won't seem so vapid or so long and drawn. My mind is
blank-just as it was in the beginning. Maybe I wasn't meant to write today. 
So I bid my computer adieu. Maybe what I had to say in the first place as I 
sat in front of my computer was absolutely nothing. 


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