Birthdays, Writing, Insomnia.

Anthony lay in bed, struggling to sleep. It was 1am and his birthday. He felt that he should write something in case becoming a year older had suddenly stripped him of his ability to make words come out of his brain. His balls were burning from the heat of his laptop. That comforting burn of progress. Cavemen never had to worry about burning their balls on technology, except for the occasional fire leap. The 21st century man could overheat his testicles using countless technological advances. Anthony had no ideas, but he started to write in the hope that something would present itself.

Nothing was coming. Maybe he was tired. Maybe 27 was the age that all writers began their decline. Suddenly the bedroom window flew open and an alien hovered in.
"Please leave." Anthony told the olive skinned alien with 16 breasts. "I'm trying to write a story. The alien nodded and left.

Anthony went back to typing. Still he had no ideas. Maybe he could write about himself writing, but then again that's all people did these days. Meta was being done to death. A smug sinking ship where the passengers stood around patting themselves on the back instead of searching for lifejackets.

There was a knock at the door. Anthony got out of bed and put on his dressing gown. Charlie Kauffman was waiting outside, brandishing a sword.
"This isn't a good time." Anthony told him.
"I don't care." Charlie replied, pointing the sword at Anthony's throat.

Anthony led Charlie into the bedroom where they found a fictional version of Anthony laying in the bed. He was writing a screenplay about a fictional version of himself being led at sword point into his bedroom by Charlie Kauffman playing Nicholas Cage playing Charlie Kauffman.
"This is too much!" Charlie yelled before plunging the sword into the fictional Anthony and then into his own stomach.

Anthony dragged the bodies under the bed and went back to writing. Still he had no ideas. He sat motionless for what may have been an hour. Eventually he got out of bed, walked into the kitchen and made a coffee. On his way back to the bedroom he noticed his copy of Moby Dick sticking out from under the sofa. He picked it up.

Back in bed he took a sip of the coffee. He'd made it too strong. That sip would keep him up for hours. He opened his copy of Moby Dick and began to type.

"Call me Ishmael. Some years a ago - never mind how long precisely - having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world..."