Orange Julius Spot

There's a big, nasty splat of something on the wall behind my computer. It's driving me bananas. It's really distracting. Every time I look up, there it is--and even when I'm not looking up, I can see it on the periphery of my vision. It looks like toothpaste, or possibly bird lime. It's white and knobbly, with a big greasy circle around it. No use cleaning it: even if I did scrub it off, that circle would still be there. I'd never be able to look at anything else when I was sitting here. It would just be me and that circle of darkened paint, bothering me from on high. I wish I knew what kind of paint they used on that wall, so I could cover the spot. Maybe I should turn my desk around. Maybe I should move it into the other room. If I shoved the bed up against the wall, there would be plenty of space.

That spot is driving me insane. I noticed it yesterday during Ravel's Pavane for a Dead Princess, which was on CBC Radio 2. They played another pavane after that, and I stared at the spot throughout.

"That spot is going to keep me from getting any work done," I told Rat A. "I'd be getting stuck in right now, if it wasn't for that spot. What about you? Rat B is kind of spotted. Do you find her distracting? Do you look at that patchy arse of hers, and forget what you're meant to be doing?"

Rat A blinked and yawned.

"Right. Stupid question. As if you'd forget to eat or sleep or shave Rat B's head. Why do you do that, anyway? Do you get some satisfaction out of keeping her bald? And why just her head? Do you ever think about barbering her right down, till she's walking around naked?"

Man, that spot is the worst. It's the pits. It makes me sick. I'm going to steel-wool it till my hand goes through the wall. Though, now that I think about it, a hole in the wall might prove equally distracting, if not more so. I'm going to coax it down, then. I'm going to wheedle it with Q-tips and a gentle soap solution. I'll play it a Bach cantata, and ply it with honeyed words.

If I stare at that spot for a long time, trying hard not to blink, it seems to separate from the wall, and float in midair. See what a distraction it is? I keep having to check on it, to make sure it's still attached to the wall. And the more I look at it, the more puzzling it becomes. It's not bird lime, and it's not toothpaste. It's not oil paint, or acrylic. It's not any identifiable substance at all. Maybe it's not superimposed on the paint, but scratched into it. Maybe I threw something greasy at the wall, and it made a scratch and a smear. (But did I do that? I've been known to throw things occasionally, but I can't remember doing that here. The last thing I threw was a misbehaving telephone. It broke open, and it took me forever to snap it back together. I was trying to do it backwards. These things should come with diagrams etched into their bases, in case of vandalism.)

No. It's definitely something on the wall. When I put my face right up next to it, it looks like dried-up soap scum. No, not soap scum. That foamy stuff you get on top of an Orange Julius drink. Bubbles and orange pulp. Is that what it is? How could it be? I hate Orange Julius. I hate drinks with pulp. I never buy anything like that. Unless the spot was here when I arrived, and I'm only just noticing it now, it couldn't be orange foam.

Why am I sitting here, anyway? Well, I'm supposed to be writing a novel. I've been wasting my time writing--how was it described to me?--"the online equivalent of the sound-bite," I think. At any rate, I've been wasting my time writing that (this), and it's time I wrote something useful. So I've sentenced myself to five hours per weekday with the word-processor, on top of my usual obligations. Yesterday, I wrote an article, half a short story (no good), and a silly poem. On Friday, I wrote two first drafts of the same article, three chase scenes, and two pages of notes to myself. I also wrote "NOVEL" at the top of a Notepad file. Today, I've spent thirty-five minutes complaining about the spot on my wall. (If anyone asks, it's a warm-up. Practice, sort of thing. I'm going to write something else when I'm done.)

I can't write a novel. I have nothing to say that'd warrant more than ten thousand words. Maybe I'll write a collection of short stories.

I feel mildly silly, and that spot is bugging the bejesus out of me. I can't wipe it off till I've used my five hours. That's another four hours and twenty-two minutes I've got to put up with it. And then I've got to redo the sketch I did yesterday, and which didn't turn out as expected. I've been drawing very badly this week. I hate these slumps. I blame the spot. It's been jinxing me for ages, I'm sure.

I--I can't think of another word to say about that spot. Time to get on with things, then. Oh, sod.