I apologize for snapping at you. I don't apologize for being angry, but I apologize for snapping.

But that's not what this post is about. Actually, this post really isn't about anything. This isn't going to be one of my insightful posts, because I'm just killing time while my dog is outside, because I'm the only one awake, so I have to let her in.

I should be writing (really writing) right now, because I have a twenty page short story due tomorrow that I'm nearly a page and a half into. But I don't have to do it all tonight because I put it off. I honestly sat down several times in the past week to write it out, but nothing came to me. I would like to blame writer's block, but my writing teacher says there is no such thing.

I say that's easy to say when 'literary fiction' genre short stories are your forte. They're not mine. Literary fiction is the good stuff. It has meaning and emotion and metaphors and underlying messages and allusions and all sorts of things that I have to incorporate into my writing that take time and thought and I have to send this story to everyone in my class so that they can critique it and tell me what's wrong with it, which makes me cringe, just thinking about it. I'm kind of shy when it comes to something like that. So I don't quite understand why I decided to be one of the first people to send out their story. I could have been the last. I would have had two and a half months to come up with a story. But I chose the first spot.

Part of me wonders if my impulsive side - the side that signs up for the first spot - has more faith in my writing ability. Because my logical side isn't feeling too confident right now. So then I wonder which side is right, and why there is a discrepancy between the two and I know I'm rambling and have probably lost most of you by now, but I just drank a Rockstar, which always seems to get my writing going (which is why I drank it - like songwriters who write better songs when they're high), but I'm sitting here at the kitchen counter waiting for my monster of a dog to kick at the door because I can't hear her from my room and I can't write literary fiction in my kitchen.

And that was the most horrid sentence I've ever written. I apologize, again. And the lion wants in, so I'm releasing you all. Goodnight.