-You wanted inspiration so bad, here now, take it-

I was struggling to find something to write about tonight. Just before I called it quits for the day, I jotted down a few notes about a forthcoming Volleyball game at work, with the intent of expanding the piece by as much as I would be able to expand the team tomorrow.

As I shifted on a cheap mattress and tried to get more comfortable, I lamented the lackluster idea, stuck in limbo with the stories about the peeling tennis shoes and the new employee from Florida. But all contain some promise, so it should be said that I drifted off feeling more or less satisfied with the day’s events.

Too bad my dreaming brain was ready to lay a real bitch of a story on me.

This is the [Present Tense] My ex-girlfriend (the one I loved) is welcoming me back after four years of silence, (and, I confess, two years or more after I stopped thinking about here regularly.) She’s beckoning me through the entryway of a dim house, and her face is more joyful than ever in life. The detritus of a party covers the floor, but all the guests are leaving. Last to go is a forgettable, nameless guy wearing a baseball cap backwards; he is sharing a toast of champagne with us, and trundles off into the den to sleep on the couch. She is leading me into the bedroom, and setting me down on the mattress.
Now it’s [Past Tense] She gets up and goes into the bathroom, the anticipation was lovely. She emerged wearing a simple dressing gown, and joined me on the bed, but not under the covers. Our eyes adjusted to each other’s love.
“It’s good to see you again,” I said.
“I know,” she replied. “So, will you be alright here for tonight?”
“Sorry?”
And now for [Present Tense] She’s getting out of bed, She’s telling me she’s got to go to the den tonight, I take her arms.
“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do, not for him or me.” I am referring to her history of abuse. She’s smiling sweetly as she touches my cheek, and my hands fall to my sides like dumb mallets.
“I have to,” she says, “He expects it.” She closes the door, leaving a blaze of light at the bottom of the jamb.
“Why am I here?” I squeak, getting out of the bed to pitch a condom into the trash. A high-pitched whine and rhythmic thumping begins. The blaze of light dims, and I see a tape transcriber on the bureau. The ribbons are a terrible mess, and the mechanism incorrectly set. I put my hand on it, and the source of the sound and the sound itself stops.

Now I’m awake at 2:45 AM, ready to go back to sleep, having discharged all of this in the past half hour. Thank you for the inspiration. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

For an encore, why don’t you cobble together a “falling while immolated” dream, you evil, wretched psyche.