here's a story inside of me. I can feel it pulsing, pushing, aching to get out. It wants me to write it. I've tried, I've tried so hard, but it just won't emerge. Damn. The ever-present curse of writer's block.

I closed my word processor without bothering to save. Everything written in it was crap anyway, not worth a rat's ass. I connected to the Internet. Opened up my e-mail account. Crap, crap, crap and more crap. It really is quite amazing as to how many people get your e-mail address, people you never even knew you knew. "Hot sexy Lesbians!" "Free! Cellular Phone and Activation!" "Want to get out of debt?!" Bah. Bah to the whole lot of them.

I deleted all the spam messages (23) and finally narrowed it down to the important messages, or at least, the spam messages that managed to hide themselves a little better than the rest. A message from my mother, two from an old flame, and one from a Dr. Wylie. I don't know a Dr. Wylie, but the subject sounded interesting, "Greetings and salutations from all of us here at the office!"

I opened the message up. All it contained was an address and a time. Well, if it's spam, it intrigued me. The address was only an hour or two away, and the time was just enough to get there. I decided to do it. Hell, what did I have to lose? Only some time, which I would lose just fine sitting by myself here at the computer.

After heading downstairs, I turned off the hallway light and locked the door behind me. Taking a deep breath, and wondering if this was a smart thing to do, I got into my car. I turned my radio on and headed off into the unknown.

"You've been listening to Star 94, Atlanta's number one hit music station. And now, a new single by David Bowie, 'Thursday's Child.'"

All of my life, I tried so hard. Doing my best with what I had. Nothing much happened, all the same.

How very appropriate. In fact, it was my life boiled down to a nutshell. I grew even more depressed as the song came to a close, and the minutes started to blend together. An hour passed, then another.

I looked at my watch. Seven minutes until I was supposed to be at that address. Good, that was enough time.

Just as the clock had 45 seconds 'till, I pulled into the parking lot that marked the place of the address. Johnny's Quickie Mart. What the hell? I parked my car away from the building.

I looked around the parking lot. Nothing. My watch said I had 15 seconds left. I opened my door and stepped outside the car. Eight seconds remaining. All of a sudden my heart stopped beating, and I collapsed to the ground.