Free writing

I used to do this in high school with a few friends. Here are the rules:

1) You can't stop writing. Only pauses for 30 seconds or less are allowed to clear your head. If you've paused for over 30 seconds, the piece is over.

2) If you're interrupted by something like a phone call, you have to scrap what you had and start again.

3) No going back to make things jive up better. Once it's down, it's down.

4) There is no beginning, middle, or end.

Here I go!

The moon hung like a giant toenail clipping in the sky when Clive broke into my modest apartment to borrow a screwdriver. He looked at me like I was insane because I had moved my bathtub into the middle of the living room. If you ask me, Clive is the one who's insane.

Fourteen years earlier:

I don't know why there's an emu farm in downtown Boston, but the theory is that emus like smog. Smog rejuvinates the emu soul, a glossy magazine ad reads. I don't believe in magazines. There are too many of them to be real.

Fourteen years later:

"Clive, get out of my living room."

"Fuck-luck," said Clive.

I don't know Clive very well. He is tall and unshaven, even when he's just had a shave. He pisses me off because he gets away with so much simply through disregard for other people's feelings. I want to be Clive. Clive hates the Pope but loves Catholics.

Fourteen years ago:

I stole an emu and cooked it for dinner. I'm not proud. It was awful. Simply the worst meal I've ever had.

Fourteen years later:

I gave Clive a screwdriver. He wanted some paint also, but I was all out. He slammed the screwdriver against the wall, making a small hole. He was lucky that he didn't hit an electrical box and get a shock. Matter of fact, I was lucky, because he would have taken it personally and beaten the hell out of my wall. I wanted Clive to leave.

"Why did you want the screwdriver?" I ask.

"Can't you shut up for one damn minute?" Clive asks back.

So I shut up. What good is it discoursing with a deranged, probably malnourishd Clive who's got possession of your good screwdriver?

Fourteen years earlier:

Emu are decadent. I hate them for it. I wish there were no more emus anywhere. They're like mosquitos or Canadians. They don't DO anything. Maybe we could make them into slaves. Really fuck them up. So I released all the emu from the Boston emu farm and tried to whip them and beat them.

Fourteen years later:

I haven't seen Clive in fourteen years.