I sit at the computer and nothing comes. I stare. I eat more chips. I call it a night.
I sit at the computer and nothing comes. I stare. I eat more chips. I have a drink. I call it a night.
I sit at the computer and nothing comes. I stare. I eat more chips and avocado. I have four drinks. I call it a night after waking up from falling asleep before I had a chance to officially call it a night.
I sit by the computer but don’t open it. I sigh and call it a night.
I sit at the computer and nothing comes. I reread something I wrote that I liked, that others seemed to have liked, and sigh. I eat more chips, avocado, and grapes, have five drinks and call it a night.
I sit on the sofa and fall asleep.
I come in blazing with an idea I typed into my phone and I am going to get started immediately, as soon as I make dinner and answer homework questions, and use the bathroom, and play Ruzzle, and play Trivia Crack, and have a drink JUST TO UNWIND, and watch an episode of Luther because now I’m kind of tired, this book is due back to the library tomorrow; I’ll just finish it up instead of renewing. Look at all this laundry. I’m going to bed. Both the laundry and writing can suck it.
That idea from yesterday is like a jellyfish inside my head, stinging, prodding, but then I imagine Squidward getting incessantly stung and now I’m laughing, thinking I should totally watch Spongebob because escalators, escalators, escalators, eels.
It could be worse, I suppose. I could come here and complain about myself and type nothingness about sitting on the sofa. Wouldn’t that be horrible? (With grapes. Tonight there are grapes.)