I didn’t know what to call my ficlet, but that was the least of my worries. What the hell was I supposed to write about? 124 characters in, I still had no idea where the story was going, and the talking cat from the Toaster Adventures was eyeing me suspiciously.

I don’t know, maybe it was a different cat. These things are so hard to tell when people don’t give thorough descriptions.

391 characters in, the situation wasn’t improving. All the glasses of water, all the resulting trips to the bathroom, all the jumping jacks, all the orangutans, and all the YouTube videos in the world weren’t enough to divert my attention from the dilemma I was caught in. And worse still, there was the body of the homeless guy stinking up the hallway and leaking blood everywhere.

God, why is a good idea so hard to come by?

The cat wasn’t saying anything, again leading me to believe maybe it was a different cat. No help there.

By the time I got down to 71 characters left I started panicking. I had nothing at all. But then…