I've been vegetating for six minutes waiting for divine inspiration to spark yet another short story for my Creative Writing class. The plot and its single effect / organic unity / what the hell ever you bulls call it, is already laid out in my head, ready to be narrated in its exquisitely graphical tale but for some preposterous reason I couldn't start writing the damned diddlyshit. Must be because of three superficially bizarre reasons:

1. It's about love. UGGGGGGHHHHHHHH.
2. It employs realism. Double UGGHH.
3. I'm frazzled from the trip from Clark (It looked like a ghost town! The stores where shutdown and everything! The streets were deserted and there were zombies roaming the place! I thought it was my home see! Since I myself am innately a zombie! Do I sound like screaming at you! No! Very well then!XD), but my brain is in tiptop shape, nevertheless. (It's not actually in perfect condition; my brain has been lagging behind ever since I stopped taking caffeine. How sad. I am sleepy, mind, and I should require myself a shut eye.)

Manny Pacquiao won!XD I swear you should've seen all those people hugging him after the fight despite all the icky slimy gluey sweat profusing from his body, not to mention, his armpits, and yet he had the guts to raise them up for all the faithful public to see who were scurrying arms wide open towards him seemingly screaming his name "Maaaaaaannnnnnyyyyyyyyy!!!" when they actually meant "Mooooonnneeeeeeeeeeeeeeeyyyy!!!" hoping the fluke of the god-sent demigod-slash-minotaur (a god with a face of a, err, horse.XP) of a boxer would rub off them. Clamorously, everybody--his family, his managers, trainers, supporters, etc. who were able to scamper up the ring--were tearfully worshipping him, "Moneymoneymoney! Hurrah! More Money! Go Money!!! We love you MOHHHHHHNNNEEEYYYY!!!"

I don't want to write anymore. Or so it seems to be struggle to write these past few days, nay, this past week, that perhaps I shouldn't be writing for a career any longer. I want... err. I wanna go back to the Mathematics department! :cry:

It's one of those WTF in holy bloody plucking mothergoose am I doing in creative writing huhuhu days that I can't even produce one decent paragraph of what I'm attempting to write, the realistic love story thingamajooks, of the holy eff, what the hell. But then I attempt to write the first two sentences, dubiously experimenting on the point-of-view (First person? Third person? If first person, should I squeeze meself into the guy's persona or the girl's?? If third person, should I be an omniscient narrator? Objective? Limited? Or should I just be a dog or someone else's pet, or a flee, perhaps, resting on the dog's fur, witnessing the whole love affair?) of the story then when I have finally settled on the man's point-of-view I couldn't put myself into his smelly shoes and retell the story as if it had happened to meh. Bleah. Finally I struggle to write the first paragraph. I reread my work, find it "SHITTY FUCK WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?? THIS IS CRAP! BULLSHIT! EVEN A TWO-YEAR-OLD CAN WRITE THIS! WHY AM I EVEN WRITING! WHAT THE HELL! WHAT THE FUCK!" dilemma, then delete the whole thing and go back to square one.

Maybe it's because I've been sleeping too little? Creative thinkers require a copious amount of sleep to be subject for divine inspiration. (Issit?o_0) According to the dictates of Greek society during the reign of the god Dionysus anyway. Or should I perhaps resort to the other option to exhume the dormant words of telltale in my already torpid memory, that of intoxicating myself by drinking at least a liter of alcohol, so that I may attain mysticism to be able to discourse with the gods to send me even a germ of poetically dramatic influx of scenographic make-believe that's been whispered to my ear as my snappy fingers scribbled the texts on the monitor screen. I don't know. I can't find the right words. They all seem to accumulate at the tip of my tongue right beside the tongue ring.XP

Question: If I drink, say, four liters of alcohol, will I blast like a fartbomb when I set myself on fire? Curious thing; human beings then can be a medium for self-immolating terrorist attacks.

Word did you say?

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