Writers block is possibly the worst thing you can get. When he got it, Todd swore that he would kill somebody if it would only give him inspiration. Pepito would look at him, bewildered, and then shake his head, muttering about how he didn't know why he was friends with such a psychopath.
Todd was, of course, not a psycho. He was not psychotic, crazy, insane, anything. That was what doctors had realized after years of testing. So of course he wasn't crazy. Doctors were doctors; they knew what they were doing. Well... most of the time, anyway. If anyone was a psycho, it was Pepito. He was the crazy one; he was psychotic, insane, and trigger happy. He blew up a bunch of kids in second grade because they made fun of his hair. If anyone should have gone to the asylum, it was Pepito. But his dad was the devil, so it was pretty much impossible to get him to do anything he didn't want to. He'd blow the White Suits sky high if they did as much to lay a finger on him.
At the time he first got it, he was sharing an apartment with Pepito. He had sat down at his desk, placed his pen to the paper, and... nothing had happened. Whereas he usually started writing up a storm, nothing had happened. He kept cursing under his breath. Pepito wasn't worried until he heard Todd throw a chair through a window.
Todd knew he wanted to be a writer by the time he was thirteen. That's usually when children at least reach an idea as to what they want to be. The strange thing about writing was he was fine until he became a professional at it; then he started getting writers , Todd Casil got somewhat angry when he got writers block. Angry, as Pepito said, was an understatement. The man went on a rampage. He hated writers block beyond belief. Pepito guessed that it was a weakness thing; Todd hated feeling weak. He had felt weak when his parents had hit him. He had felt weak when his insane neighbor had told him scary stories. He had felt weak during his childhood nightmares. He had felt especially weak when millions of doctors had given him unneeded tests, surgeries and many other things. And so, once he had gotten out of the DHMI, he had spent three hours preaching to Pepito about how fear was not going to run his life any longer. So, Anti-Christ friend understood as to why Todd hated getting writers block. It all came back to weakness.
But still, he didn't have to go and throw a freaking chair through his window.
After the anger at the fact that he had writers block passed, Todd would bury himself in the covers of the bed they shared, curling up in the wine red comforter. No amount of coaxing could get him out. Not even chocolate cake, the delicacy he adored, could pull him out of the bed, let alone the room. Pepito would, at about this time, yell at him about over-reacting, and how he had to stop acting like such a girl. His anger was replied with the cursing of his mother.
This would go on for three days. Pepito, during Todd's 'moping time', would sleep on the couch because Todd had a habit of locking the door and taking up the whole bed with his 'mopiness'. The couch wasn't the most comfortable thing in the world, so he was usually in a bad mood by then. Todd would suddenly open the door and run down to Pepito, jumping on to him and mumbling about how pathetic he was. Pepito would agree grumpily, and Todd would come to the decision that he would prove that he wasn't as pathetic as he felt, and would come up with an idea. Then he would write for a while, and get better.
Pepito, as you may guess, would be very happy that his friend wasn't depressed anymore, but mainly happy that he didn't have to sleep on the couch anymore, and could use the bed again.
But then, three to four months later, he would put his pen to the paper, and... nothing would happen.
And then... five more days of hell.
I wrote it to get over writers block. Ironic, no?