Can You Just Believe Already?

Alone in her closet, staring at the blank laptop screen, Francesca notices the time. 11:46pm. March 1, 2021. Twenty-three hours and thirteen minutes until her story deadline. The story that is currently 2,000 words short of the 2,000 word requirement.

With the intensity of a rogue freight train, panic strikes and plows through her body. She has forgotten how to breathe. Her face is flushing. One by one, her muscles grow tense. From a state of sheer terror, she incoherently yowls, "I caaaaan't dooooo thiiiiiis!" Still unable to break free from the chaotic energy holding her hostage, she thrusts her head back with an uproarious growl. With the same vigor, she then propels her head forward until it collides with the laptop's keyboard. She furiously repeaheart this motion; her hair whipping wildly for dramatic effect in hopes she can break through the inextirpable blockade that has formed around her Wernicke's area.

Writer's block is not for the faint at heart. Francesca has been plagued for thirty-two days. Thirty-two days of dead air and crickets chirping. Thirty-two long, grueling days that have pushed Francesca to a delicate state. Delicate like a plutonium bomb.

Gaining a moment of composure she groans, "Maybe I'm not cut out to be a writer."

Just as quickly as it invaded, Francesca feels the chaos dissipate from every inch of her body. Interrupting her reclaimed calm, she is slammed upside the head by a burst of clarity. "Liquor!" she proudly announces to her devoted audience of hanging hoodies and t-shirts organized alphabetically by inappropriate quotes. "How did I not think of this before? Vodka is the key to unlock my divorce awarded chastity belt, maybe it can un-cock-a-doodle-do my comatose brain too!"

14 minutes until midnight. Francesca cries out to her roommate with a sense of urgency,  "PENELOPE! Grab your keys, we're going to the liquor store!"

The two barrel out the front door like a couple of charging bulls avenging their ancestors; frantically fumbling their way into the car. Key into the ignition. Turn. The engine roars to life.

"Floor it, Penelope!" Francesca exclaims.

"What is your deal, Yo-Yo?" she questions.

As if she's testing how many words she can speak per minute, Francesca matter-of-factly explains, "I have to turn my story in tomorrow. I've never had writer's block before 'Ope. I have tried everything. The words. They are not there. I can't find them. After 32 days of overanalyzing and over thinking my circumstances, I realized that alcohol brings the danglers to my bed so in theory it should also bring the words to my story."

Taking a moment to digest Francesca's logic, Penelope can only stare blankly at the road. Finally she calmy replies, "A block caused by a chastity belt on your brain? Yo-Yo, you need a vacation. Or a psych ward."

Without missing a beat, Francesca answers, "I know, dude! I'm losing my mind. We can talk about it after I sober up tomorrow. I promise. 11:54pm. We have to hurry!"

Skidding sideways into the parking space closest to the liquor store's door, the ladies launch themselves like misfired rockets from the car; haphazardly sprinting toward the door; each clumsy stride delivering a bang of crashing thunder as their feet connect to the ground.

Running at supersonic speed, Francesca is within 2 feet from the holy that will resurrect her from silence. She blindly reaches for the door while turning back to Penelope and yells, "WE MADE IT, 'OPE!"

"YO-YO! WATCH OUT!" screeched Penelope.

Startled, Francesca quickly turns to find herself in an awkwardly intimate position with a well-built, sturdy glass door that has now tumultuously collided with her body.

Francesca let out a blood curdling howl as she realizes she's flying through the air like a plane experiencing engine failure. She covers her face when she realizes she's milliseconds from colliding head first into the Earth. Upon landing, she begins to rock back and forth in pure agony. She catches movement out of the corner of her eye. Before her is 1989's very own, World Champion Barbie Impersonator trampling by, completely oblivious to Francesca's limbs perfectly entangled into the shape of a pretzel; on display specially for her viewing pleasure.

Yammering boisterously something about her return to virginity and joining a nunnery, she awkwardly hurls a little black book into the trash can. Obviously unperturbed by the fact that Francesca is bleeding out onto the sidewalk, Barbie continues on her way; flailing her extremities like a Dodo bird that is learning to fly she carries on with her obnoxious rant to the stupidity of dating and relationships.

Dumbfounded, Francesca and Penelope paused in a moment of silence, watching Barbie disappear into the darkness. Simultaneously, they hear a loud click. 12:01am. Doors locked.

"Oh, hell no! Her booze is mine! Let's go!" Francesca roared as she struggled to get back to her feet. She marched off kilter straight to the trash can. Francesca snatched up that little black book and bellowed, "BARBIE! Wait up! You dropped something." With Penelope in tow, the battered Francesca limped erratically towards Barbie like an aggressive zombie on a covert mission. "Hey! Barbie! You missing this?" she yelled as she ferociously waved the little black book around in the air. Then Francesca notices that Barbie is now wogging, it became blatantly obvious to Francesca she had no chance of catching up in her current condition.

Oxygen deprived and running low on blood, Francesca eyes a nearby curb and quickly changes course. "Ope, go get the car. We're going to follow her until she stops. It is time for Ms. Barbie to meet She-Ra!"

Ignoring Francesca's display of feminine machoism, Penelope asks, "Hey, did she say that was a little black book as in an archaic dating app?"

"I don't know, let's see. I like your thinking though. Should we offer the poor girl our matchmaking sevices? Complimentary of course." Francesca smirked mischievously as she whipped open the the little black book for inspection. In a state of shock, Francesca looks at Penelope and yelped, "Holy rainbow farting unicorns, 'Ope, this is a Moleskine!"

Perplexed, Penelope muttered, "Okay, and?"

With the exuberance of a child on Christmas morning, Francesca gently opens the little black book for further investigation. To her amazement, she finds only a handful of pages have been used. "It's like brand new too! Holy cow!" Francesca shrieked.

"Wo-man! Calm yourself! My ear drums! I think we really should go to the hospital to have you checked out, Yo-Yo."

"No, no. Moleskine's are a writer's magic wand. I've always wanted one but you can't just pick one off the shelf. In the same way a wizard receives their wand, the Moleskine chooses the writer," Francesca explained.

Suddenly, a light bulb illuminates above Francesca's head and she screams, "Do you know what this means? Do you? I was chosen, Penelope! That means I really do gots the magic!" Francesca was expertly busting out the moves fresh off a 1994 dance floor when she suddenly froze, mid Running Man and frantically moaned to Penelope. "Can I really believe in me? Have you met me? I am disaster in training!"

Trying to contain the roar of laughter building inside if her, Penelope grabs Francesca by the cheeks and looks straight into her eyes. "Listen to me. Firstly, it is 'have,' not 'gots.' Gots is not a word. You gots that? You and your vocabulary never cease to amaze me. Secondly, you're the master of universal sign interpretation. What part of the last 20 minutes are you not understanding? YES! You can believe in yourself. Stop doubting you, you gots this! I love your beautiful, wacky, creative face, Francesca!"

Sealed with a giant bear hug, Francesca could now hear the words as they flooded into the left hemisphere of her brain. Her thoughts were flowing smoothly and effortlessly once again. Grabbing Penelope by her hand, Francesca squealed, "I'm baaaaaaaack! I need to write!, 'Ope. Let's go!" She looked at her phone to check the time. 12:42am. 22 hours and 17 minutes. Speeding up her steps, dragging Penelope by the arm, Francesca yelled, "Hurry, 'Ope, no more time to waste!"

Penelope see's something fall to the ground in front of her. She stops abruptly and plants herself firmly into proper tug of war position so Francesca couldn't drag her down. "Wait! Yo-Yo, something fell out of your Moleskine."

Trying to prevent herself from falling as she teetered backwards and off balance, Francesca spins herself around ready to lip off when she notices that Penelope is as white as a ghost. "What is it?"

Penelope cautiously hands Francesca a small, colorful rectangular card. Bewildered, Francesca inspects it carefully; front and back and replies, "I love you 'Ope but can I have a time out from your pranks? Just until the swelling in my brain goes down."

"It's not a prank, Yo-Yo!" Penelope insisted.

"Wait. What? Seriously? You saw this fall out of the little black book? Are you sure? Pinky promise that you're not messing with me!"

Penelope extends her pinky ready to swear on nothing but the whole truth.

Still in disbelief, Francesca fervently inspects the card once more. "NO WAY. I'm calling for verification." Shaking in anticipation, Francesca takes a deep breath and dials the number on the card that is printed under the words Colorado State Lottery.

Francesca's facial expressions as the minutes passed, must have been silently screaming, "Winnning lottery ticket," because Penelope started dancing around shoving her pinky in Francesca's face. Out of patience, Penelope roared, "You're the one that said Moleskines are magical! Hang up the phone! It's time to believe Yo-Yo!"

Francesca listened. She tossed her phone into the air, latched pinkies with Penelope and the two instantly exploded into a youthful frenzy of dizzy energy, shrieking, "TWENTY. THOUSAND. DOLLARS! TWENTY. THOUSAND. DOLLARS!"

They hugged. They giggled. They bounced around the parking lot, happy and carefree. Again and again they did this for at least 20 minutes.

Francesca, suddenly overwhelmed with emotions, turns away and extends her arms to the Universe. With tears streaming down her face she whispers, "Thank for believing in me when I didn't. I AM a writer. I believe in me!"

With a smile and a wink, Francesca turned back to her best friend and slid her arm into Penelope's. Leaning her head on Penelope's shoulder to hide the embarrassment on her face, Francesca sheepishly begins to speak. "Penelope? I need a new laptop. I broke mine last night when I was practicing and fine tuning my head banging techniques."

Penelope rolled her eyes and giggled, "You do realize that I am dead serious about buying you a straitjacket for your birthday, right?"

"I do."