I can’t seem to get anything done tonight. My mind is wandering. I can get started; I just can’t seem to get finished. So instead, I sit on the couch staring blankly at Otto’s screen, quoting “Almost Famous” and absentmindedly eating Starburst one after another.

“Sweet, where do you get sweet? Sweet? Where do you get off? I am dark and mysterious and pissed off.”

My mind wanders aimlessly. I think that my talent for knowing “Almost Famous” by heart is highly underrated. There ought to be some high-paying job somewhere that needs such a talent, a position only I can fill.

Then I get to thinking that I would eat a lot more fruit if it tasted more like fruit-flavored candy than actual fruit.

After the fruit-flavor/fruit debate, I write a few more lines of dialog and then decide that I don’t check my e-mail I will surely die.

Then I waste some more time playing the incredibly addictive “Fire Dragon.” I am in love with the little squinty-eyed dragon breath guy. After about 394 games, I decide that perhaps this writing thing just isn’t working for me tonight. So I’ve got three starts and no finishes.

Start #1
The time had come for Margo to lose her virginity. At the tender age of 28, she had decided the hymen had to go. So here she sat in Mary’s Caf? and Pub in Chetek Wisconsin with Sam, a married accountant from Brooklyn Park, trying to decide if she should have the apple pie with the cheddar cheese. Would cheddar cheese make her breath stink? She was hoping there would be some hot kissing action going on in a little bit.

“Mary, do you want cheese with your pie,” Sam asked. Yeah she gave him a fake name. She didn’t want any stalking weirdness after their little rendezvous.
“Uh, no thanks,” she said. “Just the apple pie ala mode and an iced t, thanks.”

Start #2
Her nipples were still hard. Even after a year, there they stood, begging for attention. There really was no logical explanation. It was 90 some degrees outside today, the air was so thick with humidity it was like you needed a spoon to get it into your lungs. But there they were, introducing themselves to the throngs of fair-goers, Jeannie’s nipples.

Start #3
His glasses were like storm windows; so large they covered half his face. She always wanted to ask him if his cheeks were in dire need of prescription lenses, but she never did. Instead he’d just come up to the bar clad in his Donald Duck sweatshirt and nod at her. He didn’t speak much; expect to ask for a “snot rag.” Which always wanted to make her gag. He’d nod and she’d get him an ice cold Schmitt. He always left her the change, so she liked him.