The Bloody Doors Off

— My brain, just now.

I swear, it’s a scene waiting to be written. Guy lying on a psychiatrist’s couch, decked out in a tunic, trousers and a cloak. AND a helmet with horns protruding from the left and right sides.

Your classic Freudian office set up.

There’s just one problem.

I don’t know if this guy IS a viking, or having a mid-life crisis.

Or a viking having a mid-life crisis.

Because the only plundering happening today are the corporations and the banks and oil & gas.

They’re the top of the food chain.

People fear them.

This guy believes a Trickster God who, upon his father’s orders, turned himself into a female horse and end up giving birth to an eight-legged mare (I’m assuming it was female, I can’t be bothered to investigate further).

Steed. I caved. Sleipnir was male.

And no one can play him better than Tom Hiddleston.

This guy. This viking.

He doesn’t strike fear in anyone’s hearts.

Don’t get him started on the other fifty percent of what Vikings did. Dude never followed that crowd.

So when did he first think he was a viking?

Makes the most sense that it’d be from his first memories.

Which isn’t that funny.

That’s what’s been missing.

Why I can’t write.

I can’t access that part of my brain that finds the twist in a simple phrase that passes through my brain, or listening to the same song on repeat because it is talking to you, dammit, keep listening. Or finding some random table clock with a corporate stamp and a “thank you for your service” inscribed on the back, and it makes you wonder what would happen if Santa decided, on Christmas Eve, that he was going to retire at the end of his shift.

Or a Santa who got laid off because the parent company of Christmas was making some “tough choices” in order to boost shareholder profits.

Which screams funny.

It’s a funny premise.

Only I can’t see past that. Because, what I just wrote on the line above?

That’s bullshit.

That’s what I’m telling myself.

Which means I am self-sabotaging.

Well. Ain’t that the shit.

I’m the writer’s block.