Writer’s Block

I’d been sitting staring at a blank screen for three hours, and I’d had enough of it. “If inspiration won’t come to me,” I thought, “I will go to inspiration.”

So that’s exactly what I did. I set off out into the world seeking a story. I witnessed a couple having a fight and got punched in the face by both parties. I got in a bar fight in Budapest with a group of angry accountants and some rowdy neo-Nazis. I performed karaoke on a US warship, dressed in an admiral’s uniform. I rode a tiger in an Indian jungle. I played poker with the Dalai Lama, and lost my spiritual salvation. I got matching tattoos with a six-foot-tall female transsexual in Nicaragua. I got chased out of the Kremlin. I got chased into the White House. I discovered a new species of earthworm in Luxembourg. I walked across three separate deserts, and lost toes in two of them. I became the first DJ to perform on Antarctica where the crowd was seventy per cent penguins. I caused one civil war, and ended two. I unearthed a new pyramid in Egypt, bigger than the one in Giza. I married a Saudi princess, twice. I then headed for home using two trains, three camper vans, one bi-plane from the First World War, a skateboard, and a sled pulled by huskies.

Finally, I arrived home. I went straight to my computer and turned it on.

Now I’ve been sat here for four hours and I can’t think of a damn thing to write about.

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