Prose, poetry, fiction, and rambles from people with a bit too much time on their hands.

red light, green light

I’m left here not only to ponder what the f- just happened but also to maintain enough composure to not go ahead and have a nervous breakdown in the middle of five-o-clock traffic. “Go to hell,” she said, as nonchalant as possible and in the worst possible way. But I suppose it was imminent anyways.

A deadbeat writer, left only with an overdrawn credit account, a laptop, and a brand-spanking-new car that wasn’t really going anywhere after an initial tank of gas. It was already half empty, and my wallet was 0% full. How’s that for optimism. An artist without a significant other is homeless, as the bad joke goes. I guess it was true.

So here I’m left in five-o-clock traffic, staving off a nervous breakdown that was bound to happen anyways, and wondering of what the past half hour entailed. A phone call was all it took, apparently. Three words, “Go to Hell.” And with that, I’m left pretty much with a car, a laptop, a pretty much empty wallet and an apartment across town that I haven’t been to in a good six months. Come to think of it, there was an eviction notice in the mail.

So what am I left with? A half tank of gas, yes. An open laptop on the passenger seat, yes. And what appears to be a strike of inspiration that came out of the proverbial left field. A dash, and my fingers were already at the keyboard typing away. It was, after all, a red light. A blaring horn lasted for about fifteen seconds before I looked up to see a middle finger in the rearview mirror and a green light above. God f-ing dammit.

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2 Comments on “red light, green light”

  1. david says:

    ahem.
    MARIA hahaha.
    i use msn too :/
    its david_slept@hotmail.com

    -o-
    and what email did you send it to?

  2. Maria Isabel says:

    Gonna add you there.
    And I think I sent the email to Yahoo.

    And ‘author’, never again have a strike of inspiration in the middle of traffic. Specially if you live in Luanda.


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