September 13, 1998

Note: I apologize for the discontinuation of the BoB series, but I've had other ideas to write.
Note Note: Note Note sounds funny.
Note Note Note: This is just a writing and is not indicative of my current emotional state.

A Writer's Suicide Note

The two sat in the back corner, both reading the script. They poured over and over each line and word of their prospective film, cutting a scene here, pasting it there. They were creating their inspiration, despite the irony of a burned out light bulb suspended above them from the cracked paint ceiling.

I sat underneath a working light in a booth across from theirs. Perhaps this legend of the light bulb is wrong. Sure, it took a brilliant creative idea of Edison's to bring forth light.

"Maybe that's it," I blurted out, not even disturbing the two engrossed in a story about love, sex, betting and a pool table. I took another sip of my Pepsi (God, I hate that shit).

I kept quiet, wondering more about my idea. If Edison's idea came before the bulb ever shone, perhaps a dark bulb acts as some sort of vacuum of ideas. Mental brilliance leads to brilliance brilliance, of sorts.

Hoping to improve my situation, I reached up to unscrew the bulb. The bastard was too damn hot, not like it would've worked anyway. The bulb still could light (if given the chance), not like theirs, which will take a miracle to shine again. That would be an amazing idea.

The guy who wrote the script just returned from the bathroom, saying there was some fat guy in there changing his shirt. There's another scene for the movie.

"I'm sick of it, I don't want to put up with it anymore," one read from the script.

"Slam, squeal of tires," joked the other. I hate these assholes, penning up all the lines before I can get to them. I can't even write a piece of shit and they take any words before I ever think of them.

Oh, just fuck it!

"I just love that line: Fucking damn it, Jake!!"