Fiction(ish): Gray Matter Brawl

"You're supposed to be writing."

"Shut up."

"Aren't you the one that keeps giving out 'just write' advice? Just wriiite, don't woooorry about whether it's perfect, you can just look down and write about your shoes, it's all writing, blah de blah de blah."

"Shut up."

"And here you are, not writing. You've got shoes. What's the problem?"

"Also? Shut up."

"They're black, right? Suede."

"Did I mention the shutting up?"

"Kinda dirty, though. The shoes, I mean. Not the writing. Dirty writing would be a lot more interesting than this."

"BE QUIET NOW!"

"I don't wanna be quiet. Why don't you just walk away if you don't like it, huh? Huh? Huh?"

"Oh, for bleep's sake..."

"I know why. It's because I live in your head. Cool, huh?"

"Yeah. Great."

"In fact, it appears that your version of looking down and writing about your shoes is arguing with yourself at the keyboard."

"Are you done?"

"Have you written three hundred words yet?"

"No."

"Well, then, that's your answer, now isn't it?"

"I could just say 'shut up' another seventy-five or so times."

"You could, but you're not going to."

"Shut up."

"Seventy-four to go. By the way, does this count as fiction? After all, I actually am in your head. And so are you. Sort of by definition. Unless you're possessed or something."

"That's an idea. Let's call an exorcist."

"Nah. I might be the one that belongs here."

"I'll risk it."

"No, you won't. Anyway, you don't have any pea soup."

"That didn't make any sense."

"I'm not the part that has to make sense. I don't care if you write. Or eat sugar. Or drink a gallon of milk. In fact, let's go get some milk right now. One gallon and I'll shut up."

"No."

"That's all? 'No'? You want milk, too. You know you do. You're the reason we get fat; it's not me."

"Shut up."

"Milk and a cupcake. Several cupcakes. You think that place in Portland would ship 'em?

"Three hundred and five words. Bye!"

"Dang."