It's unimaginably annoying when you're supposed to be working, reading that huge textbook which talks in alien gibberish and putting together an essay that for the rest of the night, that you end up really wanting to write a script. That's always the way and discussions with Cocky Balboa have certainly whetted my appetite to write the masterpiece we've been talking about.
It's always happened that way: when I need to work, I want to write and when I have free time I can't muster up the courage, strength or motivation to create a single poem, prose, novel, novella, script, haiku, sonnet, play, screenplay or anything remotely creative. This lack of motivation which begins from the bollocks up has to end here.
Whenever we talk about this unifying idea of my creation and his contribution (which will end up to be vast I'm sure, don't worry, we will share billing) there just seems to be a real enthusiasm and drive to go out there and get it done but it always comes at times like these, where much like a dog with constipation that has a rectal dysfunction which causes it to flop out, the summer has a decency malfunction from the rear, which flops out with Uni work.
Well, it's 03:24am and I need to sleep to more drama on my ipod with the 8th Doctor. No more nightmares please. Another Reshits update tomorrow then I shouldn't wonder. God knows who I'm even addressing, no-one reads this arse-gravy anyway.
JPH
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