Partly Cloudy, 64°
Pounding his right fist into his left palm to symbolize resolve, a reporter for the Brown Noser announced to himself, right now, that it was finally time to write the article that was supposed to be finished three whole days ago.
The reporter set aside several hours tonight to sit down and finish the damn thing, but somehow it has already been two hours and he is only on the second paragraph.
"Wait. Two hours? How did that happen?" asked the reporter, who could have sworn it was only a few minutes since he sat down in this first-floor Rockefeller Library carrel and watched a couple of YouTube videos so he could get in the article-writing mindset.
The reporter said he first tried opening a blank Word document and staring at the screen for several minutes, his hands floating uselessly above the keys until he forgot what he was doing and began removing dirt from under his fingernails.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Okay.
If the reporter is unable to write this article, this single article that he had many entire days to work on, then why the hell does he think he will be any good at doing this for a living, or even at being productive in any area of his life at all?
It's all so fucking hopeless, according to sources. That is, according to the reporter himself, since he's too lazy to even pick up the phone and find real sources for his articles and ends up making them all up on his own.
Maybe the reporter just needs to go and get some coffee. Maybe then he'll be able to write this stupid article.
"Well that was useless," the reporter said after finishing his coffee and browsing FAIL Blog for forty minutes, "Coffee doesn't do the same things it used to do for me. Now I need it just to stay awake."
Speaking of which, the reporter is feeling a bit sleepy, come to think of it. He's probably been working himself too hard thinking up ideas for the article. He probably needs to lie down for a second. Yes.
No. No sleep right now. He said the same thing last night, remember? He said he would just doze for a couple of minutes and then get right back to work. And then what happened?
"I slept the rest of the night and didn't get a single thing done."
That's right. Not a single damn thing. So come on, sit up now, let's write some words. The reporter still has some coffee left in him, doesn't he? The coffee cup is empty but that doesn't mean he can't have a cup-half-full attitude.
"Cup half full platitude, more like. I'm so fucking tired."
Hey, I'm just trying to help you out here. Don't give me that look. You need me. I'm the narrative voice, for crying out loud. I'm what's going to help you write this article, so don't act like-
"I don't care. I'm going to sleep. I'll talk to you in the morning, okay?"
You liar! You said we would write it tonight. Okay, fine. Sleep if you want to. You can always finish it tomorrow, isn't that right, you coward? Yeah, go ahead and rest your eyes, go ahead and wake up at eleven in the morning and realize this is never going to get finished, go ahead and vomit something out without thinking; you can call it "stream-of-consciousness" if you want. It's your loss, not mine, you know. You're just a lowly journalist, going nowhere. But me? I'm print media. I'm never going to die.
