Time To Write
A bistro table stands with its legs crossed proudly on a balcony that oversees the Atlantic Ocean.
The set is completed with the accompaniment of two chairs.
One decently padded for my ass.
And the other for which to prop my bare feet.
A cocktail glass of straight up bourbon whiskey on the rocks rests on the table, offering itself to me.
It looks quite sexy next to my treasured, bronze plated ashtray that hosts an expensive, half smoked cigar that see-saws on the edge.
In front of me is a pocket sized, moleskin notepad with a blue pilot pen on top of it, awaiting my very next thought.
My Ipod rests in my pocket while blasting ridiculously loud hair metal into my ears.
The scorching hot summer shine falls down on me.
A warm breeze from the ocean front blows the freshest air into my face.
Everything is perfect.
The whiskey is cheap, diluted with an overabundance of ice, and tastes like the remnants of the barf and spit on the bottom shelf of the most disgusting bar in 20 miles.
To exact its revenge for my years of maltreatment toward my CD collection, the Ipod has now found a track that skips so infuriatingly badly that it sounds worse than a three year old on a piano.
The cigar is wasted, waterlogged from last night's rain, which explains why my keester is now soaking wet.
Ink from the goddam pen is leaking all over my hand.
And it isn't sunny. It's overcast.
The breeze isn't warm. It's very chilly.
And while I'm being honest, the real reason I prop my feet up is because of all the dog turds scattered about.
And it smells like shit out here.
So I wrote this...thing.
And now it's raining.