I can't stand it.

I really, really can't.

At any given moment, on any given day, there are a hundred-thousand things I'd rather be doing than writing.

Like a goat's ass.

I'd rather do a goat in the ass than write.

Every time I boot up the word processor, every time I add another superfluous adjective, every time I un-dangle a participle, every time I try to find a phrase to describe a fucking sunset that hasn't already been done before, every time every time every goddamn time, I'd rather be fucking a goat in the ass.

And the rewards are few.

And the rewards are none.

And the only reason I do it, the only reason I force myself to do it, is because it's the only goddamn thing on Earth I'm halfway decent at, and if I don't do it then there'll be nothing of me to remind the world that, at one point, I was here.

Except a raped goat.

-----------------------------------

Got the results back today.

It's benign. Non-cancerous.

On the negative side, there'll be no sympathy sex for me.

On the plus, I guess there's that whole 'not dying' thing.

Ah, who am I kidding.

There is no plus side.

Fuck.