Had a great writing night last night. I killed. I got those stories and I made them my bitches. At first they were all like: but mooooooom, I don't waaannnnnaaa. They whined like the little bitches they were. But I showed those stories who was boss. I whipped them and when they cried, I whipped them some more.
And then I tried to go to sleep at 9am, and they wreaked their unholy vengeance on me. Oh-ho-ho, they said. You thought you were gonna get away with riling us all up like that! You thought you could just walk away and leave us now that we're all bum fucked and whip marked and left tied up with a huge boner.
Well see how you like this, Charlotte Stein: BAM! Seven pages of a new story I had hiding under my left testicle that has to be written now or YOU WILL DIE. Take that, beyotch. Write that story. NOW who's the boss, huh? NOW who?
That's what I thought.
Dear God, how I love almost being a writer!