My still as yet untitled, unwritten, and barely thought about short story is due in roughly 30 hours. I haven’t even gotten so far as to save a blank Word document as a sort of placeholder for the story that will flow magically from my fingers.

I’m afraid I’ve become victim of my own cockiness. I’ve started to believe my own press and we all know that’s the worst thing that can happen to an artist.

My friends are quite fond of telling stories about my daring procrastination tactics, about how I wait until the last conceivable moment to start at story and then crank out an 18-page draft. As if that’s some sort of laudable achievement.

They should really be punching me in the neck for waiting so long and wasting their time on stories so shitty that fuzzy baby kittens burst into flames at the fact that such shittiness now exists in the universe.

I am so fucked, figuratively (not literally, because at least I’d have a reason for not starting my story).