Excuse Me, My Brain Just Farted

I have hit a dilemma I can't bullshit my way out of. This unforeseen obstacle is a stress-induced writer's block. With less than 4 weeks left of the semester, I know I'm not the only one getting a little steamed from all the heat in the kitchen. I still have tests, papers, financial burdens, and the hive full of busy work still left on my plate before I can even begin thinking about summer vacation. But my stress ruins my life. It causes every single bit of me to go on standby (ie. sleep, weight loss, creativity, and my control to not eat everything in sight) for as long as I have this heaviness weighing down on my shoulders.

For my professional writing class, I have to write a 2000 word short story as the final assignment. While my peers are eager to scribble down plots and characters that would honestly be more appropriate for full-length novels or sagas, I am sitting there with a brain that has a horrible case of flatulence. Nothing is going on upstairs. I have nothing going for this assignment. I've turned to probing my friends, family, and Internet strangers for some kind of idea for this damn assignment, but even that doesn't help. I have tried listening to music, watching movies, reliving episodes of Degrassi before it turned into really ripe shit, and going out and doing things but nothing will unfreeze my brain. WHERE IS THE OVERRIDE BUTTON WHEN I NEED IT?  This is really embarrassing for me.


This doesn't happen to me. I am the queen of bullshit.

I am preparing to have a career that is centered around my ability to make shit up, and it scares me that
my stress might just jeopardize my dream of being cool enough to win a Poe bust like John Green.

Maybe if I just continue to listen to the song previews on the iTunes top 200 list, the creative energy of people who are creative for a living will just start seeping out of my ears and into my computer so that I can get this assignment started.  I mean, if the Jonas Brothers were able to come up with that pile of shit they call a new single, why can't I concoct a plot for this stupid short story? Maybe if I had type 1 diabetes, an Italian wife from New Jersey, and an ego bigger than Texas I'd be able to work some literary magic here. POOOOOOOP! 

I cry, and my tears are literary masterpieces I can't write.

But seriously.

Oh, well. Maybe I just need to take up heroine or whiskey like all the great writers of history to make wonderful stories and slowly kill myself as a bonus result.

Just kidding. Kids, stay away from drugs and alcohol. Eat your veggies. Keep your hands out of your pants.