The book I’m reading says there’s no such thing as writer’s block. I beg to fucking differ.

I’m sorry. I’m really not the type to swear. I find such words… distasteful. But sometimes vocabulary fails, and I can find no more appropriate words.

There’s so many espresso shots in me I’ve stopped counting, and all they’ve done is make my hand shake as I hold pen to paper. I’ve started tearing pages out of my notebook, crumpling up the blank, white, blue-lined sheets, just to satisfy my urge to destroy something. There isn’t a mirror about, but I’m sure there’s a lovely green-purple bruise blooming on my forehead from the copious amount of times I’ve slammed it into the desk. The brink of tears is nearing by seconds, I can feel it.

Also, I’m starting to hiccup.

The more I try to write, the harder the warriors of inspiration-lost fight back.

It’s late, and I’m tired, and freezing, since my dinky little space heater crapped out hours ago. Surrendering, I retreat to bed, and hope the words will come tomorrow.