A short nanowrimo comedy-ish thing that I did instead of writing.

(This post is not one that will help anything, it's purely meant to be. . . comical? I guess? I don't know, you be the judge.)

HELPP. I think I'm drowning in my own book.

I procrastinated and DID NOT plan my book or do literally anything until one hour BEFORE November.

I don't know what I'm doing with my life anymore T_T

I wanted to write a book set in the early fifties. I came up with the idea once and had a few thoughts for it scribbled down, but I did ZERO planning. All hail the president of the procrasti-nation, me.

So, instead of doing what I'm supposed to, I decided to write a short nano comedy. Please enjoy this dumb short story I wrote to express my distress.

*pulls back red velvet curtain with dripping icing*

Tap-tap-tip-tap. . .

The keys of the young writer's laptop clicked in the late-night darkness as he tried to hurriedly hit his 1.5k word limit.

Words swirled around his head in a taunting, mocking manner, filled with typos that he itched to remove, but forced himself to ignore until he had finished his chapter. This advice was given to him by a friend, who always seemed to fill his nano word count every year, so why not him?

His piled homework glared at him from the countertop, but he ignored its burning gaze. He'd finish it later.

The laundry needed to be washed. He'd do it after this chapter.

He took a hurried sip of his water from a plastic cup, because he hadn't done the dishes and everything was dirty.

His fingers paused over the keyboard and he groaned as his brain lost the trail it had been on. He seemed to play an invisible piano above his laptop, but instead of the sound of peaceful music, he heard the taunting of his own thoughts.

Drowning. He was drowning. He was on land, perfectly safe except for the lack of sleep that shaded the areas beneath his eyes, and he was drowning.

He closed his laptop and sighed, resting his arm against the table and his forehead against his arm.

Words started to spill from his laptop. "Fifty-thousand words, Carl! Hurry, you're running out of time. . ." The voice was nagging as the letters tugged at his arm and strands of hair, begging him to finish.

"Too. . . tired. . ." His eyes jolted awake as a semicolon jumped onto his head and began to dance a ballet.

"Almost out of time!" chirped a comma. "Hurry. . ."

The letter K, the first initial of his main character, stared him in the eyes with cold, marble-like eyes of its own. "Why aren't you writing, Carl? Was I not enough for you?!"

Carl blinked, then blinked again and sat up, checking his clock. 3 am. He had to start work at 6.

"I just need sleep," he whispered groggily. "Just a little sleep. That's all I ask of you!"

"Why aren't you washing us, Carl?" whined a chipped plate from the sink. "Plastic isn't nearly as healthy for you as real glass!"

"It's not you, it's me," he replied sorrowfully as he cast a forlorn look towards the piled dishes. "It's been a rough few weeks--er, month."

Carl's socks inched their way towards him slowly, as if it took every muscle in their body to move a single inch. "Wash us! We gave you the best years of our lives, and this is how you repay us?!"

"I'm sorry!" he sobbed, even as clothes from all over the floor inched towards him. "I'm so--so--"

Carl's eyes snapped open. He was safe, in bed, with his alarm blaring.

It was only a dream--a warped memory of the last month he'd endured.

He exhaled slowly, relishing the fact that his book was finished, and that he didn't have to worry about this any longer.

Carl hit the snooze, closed his eyes, and fell asleep.