It's a massive pain in the ass to have so much that you feel you need to put on paper (or on the screen as it were) and when the time comes that you get a little privacy, a chance to duck away from shit and sit in front of your computer to do some real work for once, that time comes and you can't fucking think of a single word that could come next. Who are my characters again? What the hell is going on in this story?
Writers' block. I've already got my cock blocked, and now this, too?
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.
You have to hate the nature of this whole thing. Write for months, for years in poverty, starving and slaving for hours just to drudge some words into sensible order from the disparate river of alphabet soup that is the thought process, and at best all you can expect is the allotted fifteen minutes that so many spend lifetimes aspiring to.
I better get a half hour, or at least twenty minutes. Ha ha. That's a joke.
God damn it, why can't I write something real right now?
Fuck fuck fuckitty figglety fuckerrous furious fuck.
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