There I am, sitting at the computer, and nothing is coming out. I feel nauseous. Isn’t this supposed to me great novel? Shouldn’t this come easy? But there’s this nagging suspicion that none of this is right. The dialogue is clunky, the characters are clumsy. None of this makes sense or feels smooth. Fuck. What am I supposed to do? Write through the awkward parts and hope it comes together? Or should I lazily meander into the world of online shopping for another 45 minutes and hope that by the time I come back to it, everything just works magically? Ok, no, enough of that, I’ve already racked up enough credit card debt on that shiny new credit card I got a couple months ago. Oof. Maybe time to start earning the things I’ve been buying and put the pedal to the metal. Right? Maybe money will motivate me? No? Still just sitting here with nothing coming out? Fuuuck. Should I get drunk? Sometimes that works. Turn on the TV? Give up? Why is this masterpiece still sitting inside me like a piece of rotting meat? Why isn’t it on the page already? Isn’t this supposed to be the thing that I do best? Write? Yet it eludes me. A fickle fucking mistress. I’m sick of this cat and mouse with the paper and pen. I want this to be done already. I want to be ready. I want to not have to think about the agony of writing and worry about other things instead, such as: will this be deemed a failure by society? Or, no, that’s what I’m thinking about now. That’s what’s stopping me. As usual. A whole host of insecurities that are adding up to: why not just masturbate instead? Masturbating is easy. I’m really good at masturbating. That’ll do the trick. I’m going to masturbate now.