I wanted to write a short story so here you go!
My head is pounding. I stare at the bed in the corner of my room enviously. My eyes just will not stay open. I take a sip of some iced coffee and put it back down with a loud bang. I scribble a few more words on the piece of paper that is my enemy. I glance at the clock: 3:42 am. I begin the conclusion paragraph. I can't focus, so I get up and do twenty pushups. I sit back down and write down another sentence before I have to take another sip of my disgusting coffee. I finally get to the last sentence in the paragraph: the easy part. I jot it down… and done! Sort of. I still have to do the analysis essay.
The truth was that I was supposed to have started this essay a month ago, but I, as always, left it until the last night. A fifteen-pager plus another two pages for the analysis essay. I can’t believe that I did this again even though, at the beginning of this year, I told myself I would be better: that I would not be a procrastinator. And, yet, I still did it. Why?
I clumsily organize the mess of papers into a neat stack in the corner of my desk and pull out three more pages. I begin the slow process of brainstorming on one of the pages and then writing out everything I need to on the other pages.
Is it just me or, is my hand getting slower? Why is my nose an inch away from the paper? Why is my head killing me? I watch and listen to the scratching sounds of my pencil on the sheet. The sound is slowing down, the words are getting blurrier, my eyes are closing, and I feel my cheek squish against the paper. Strangely, this doesn’t seem to bother me at all.
