Bohemian Fap-sody

Harvey snickered with delight as he typed:

Harvey's hands in fingerless gloves hovered like silent helicopters over the paper maelstrom -- his desk. They seemed to be searching for something. The small oak desk was buried under half-written letters; littered with half-filled notebooks exploding with undigested and inchoate ideas; and ornamented with a half-empty wine glass stained with the remnants of blackberry cordial. The oak secretary's desk was pressed against the exposed brick corner of Harvey's large cold and empty loft, under the sole functioning source of heat: a dismal vent pouring warm dull-smelling air. When deciding whether to put his bed or his desk near the only working vent, Harvey decided he was more committed to writing than he was to sleeping. But since moving in, he had not finished writing a single thing.

A small legal desk lamp illuminated the keys of the fat typewriter at which Harvey sat. The entire loft sat bathed in thick darkness save for Harvey and his small incandescent lamp; he felt like an ant in the bottom of a closed shoe box. Harvey's hands finally found what they were looking for: a blank sheet of paper; one unstained by cordial or shitty ideas.

He gently stuffed the paper into his typewriter and turned the requisite knobs with precision and purpose. He pressed the carriage return and the machine jolted as if waking. Harvey snickered with delight as he typed:

Harvey's hands in fingerless gloves hovered like silent helicopters over the paper maelstrom -- his desk.

Harvey paused. Seriously? He was certain that he was more creative than this. He continued to type:

They seemed to be searching for something. The small oak desk was buried under half-written letters; littered with half-filled notebooks exploding with undigested and inchoate--

Fuck, thought Harvey. Once again trapped in a vicious cycle of his own uncreativity; a beast now growing to post-modern proportions. Harvey took a deep breath and looked around his decidedly unbohemian surroundings. His apartment was small, warm and preciously lame. The bare walls had recently been painted and the aroma of latex seemed to pull him from the romantic reverie of the cold, brick, dark miserable loft. Turning back to his computer he was determined to shake free of this snake eating its own tail.

ideas; and ornamented with a half-empty wine glass stained with the remnants of blackberry cordial. Harvey raised the heavy typewriter over his head and slammed it forcefully into his skull -- killing him instantly.


Harvey poured a few fingers of blackberry cordial into a dirty glass, and finished it, undiluted, in a single gulp. He sighed.

Fully permeated by the smell of latex and halogen lighting, Harvey arose from his office chair and plopped down on the futon in the living room. Everybody Loves Raymond was on the television, but he could not find the remote.