Block the Block

I’m having official writer’s block.
Certified.
By me.
As someone who does not usually have it.
So I’m working out the kinks, right here. You know, getting the keys loosened up, the fingers nimble.

I just got back from a few hours touring one of New York’s humungous abandoned mental hospitals. I am talking dilapidated. Creepy. Beautiful. Run down like brick fortresses pecked at by crows. Some probably have been.

I toured the place with a politician in her Jaguar. I accidentally swiped her interior tan upholstery with my black Bic pen.

I did.

On the ride, I discovered my white skin is not ready for the beating sun of Mexico. I may fry like fried ice cream. You know, get all melty inside.