The Procrastinators Dilemma
The sun looks sick and diseased in the backround, it's light a pale and ghastly yellow, spilling over the stark white piece of paper before me. I breathe a sigh of frustration. The pen is cold and slippery in my clammy palm, as if even it didn't want me to finish writing. I wipe my palms on the grubby denim of jeans that haven't seen the inside of a washing machine in just shy of a month. The acrid smell of stale sweat and tobacco invade my nostrils like a plague. I drop the pen, listening the the dull thud as it hits the shag carpet beneath me. I lean towards my whiskey flask, cool and slick with precipitation, it invites me to drink deeply and forget my troubles. I put my lips to the metal flask, and swallow the last bit of sweet nectar it holds. I think to myself that maybe I'll have more inspiration tomorrow. Always tomorrow.