Won't You Help Me Break This Thing?

I want to write. That’s an understatement. Metallic desire bubbles through my veins, the inspiration burners jammed on ‘high’. Every ounce of me is yearning for the words to be released. Trouble is, I only have 3 days to finish Project House, and I can’t allow this one to rest as incomplete. One The Parents have returned, I will get nothing done without a barrage of belittlement and guilt-trips.

Simple, right? Complete Project House and reign in The Urge until the building shines. And once They return, take coffee and food, barricade oneself into a space empty of distraction, and cut the chains of inspiration.

But what if I told you that my willpower is weakened by a lack of sleep and too many waking nightmares involving other people’s laundry, parent dust, and the Giant Green Slugs I share my house with. What if I told you that I cannot prevent my fingers from tapping at the keyboard and setting stories free, but that with every letter comes an onslaught of guilt and a desire to clean instead, so that after 10 minutes I am reeling away from my PC. But then, as I tidy, my mind stretched towards the tales left untold, and neither can I clean. It’s a vicious cycle, and I can’t seem to get out of it.