A Shocking Tale of An Aspiring Writer, a Racist, Drunken Bastard, and Potential Vandalism

As you all know, I write all the time, but it's pretty much just this blog nonsense and the occasional faux-ad or story. It's all good practice, but I wish I could write something of substance, I wish I could write a novel, or at least attempt to. The thing is, when I actually have a topic or theme to write about, I set to it, and do a pretty good job, but the problem is coming up with a topic. Especially a fictional one.
That's why I blog all the time: I get to write, but thinking up a theme or topic isn't really necessary, because I just use whatever I'm thinking of or doing at the time, elaborate on it, and do my best to make it a little witty or entertaining. It's all from my life.
In some ways, my life is a little bit less ordinary than average, and therefore good for writing about: I'm ethnic, but don't look it and am alienated from my culture; I'm an only child, which is always fodder for psychologists; I have, shall we say, an intense personality; my dating life is a farce; and I'm always coming up with odd, yet strenuous projects.
Each of these elements on their own cause interesting stories to happen on a daily basis, but how can I string them all together in some sort of coherent fashion to make a linear (or non-linear, I do love the post-modern) tale?
Novels always have some sort of momentum going: the reader might not know where the story is headed, but it's obviously headed somewhere. Some sort of arc must occur. But since daily life has a million little arcs, but no overarching (ha!) arc, since really, your story is never over until you're dead, I find it difficult to just pull a series of things together and then say, yes, that's it, that's the endpoint.
So here's my little vignette for the night, a 100% true story of racism and potential vandalism:
It's 11:45 p.m., I'm in bed, on the edge of sleep, when suddenly I hear drunken shouting. At first, I think it's my neighbor, who has been known to pull such stunts. I sit up and look out the window. Nope. It's a stranger, probably leaving one of the bars for the night.
"Fuuuuckkk! I don't want no fucking nigger for a president!" It takes me a second, and then I realize what the drunkard is yelling about: Obama.
"I'm a goddamn racist and I don't want to look at no fucking nigger every day!" he continues. Ugh. Several lines of thought run through my brain: first, this sounds like the guy Chris ran into when we were canvassing for Obama, only in a fully inebriated state. Then, I suddenly fear for my car. I've got an Obama sticker stuck to the rear window, and I'm suddenly worried that this idiot will vandalize my car if he sees it. I'm also kind of shocked that someone, even if they're drunk off their head, could lurch down the street yelling such stuff.
Suddenly, a female voice rings out in the night (yes, that sounded cheesy), "Shuuuut uuuppp!"
The drunkard has by now passed my car, so the Volvo's in the clear, and he has now become distracted by the yelling woman.
"You don't tell me to shut up!" he screeches, "Fucking whore. You shut up!" he drivels on in the same vein, interspersed with retaliatory shouts from the woman.
Ugh. Nice. Just what I want to hear when I'm trying to sleep. So now it's 12:41 a.m. and I'm up musing about writing and idiots.