I’m sitting here. I’m supposed to be working. I’m not fucking working.

Tomorrow I’ll be yelling at myself. If I have enough time. Then I’ll be stuck in here again. Doing nothing.

I know this wall in front of my face, and the one jutting off of it intimately. I know the crappy death-trap dryer right on the other side. I know the dirty feet marks hidden beneath the desk. I know the cheap raised bump-bump-bump of the particle board. A thousand of them, perfect for lifting up the back of your shirt and rubbing against, scratching out an all-over itch so delicious it’s almost perverted.

(Look. Now I’m admitting I rub the walls with my body. It’s like I have no humiliation left whatsoever. Thanks, blog.)

Wait. I have a point. Or rather, I did.

I know this place. Where I stare at nothing. Words-words-words in my head. Erasing before I allow anything down through my fingertips. Feels so bloody melodramatic.

I have to remind myself. Get a grip. It’s just goddamn writing.