The edge of my seat is biting my ass.

The edge of my seat is biting my ass.

I stare anxiously at the blank page in front of me. “Write a series of opening lines”, the prompt says. But I can't think of any. The discomfort of my position occupies too much space in my head. I aimlessly move the mouse with one hand while unbuttoning my jeans with the other. Aaaah. That feels better.

I paid way too much money for these jeans. They’re in an “aspirational size” the clerk told me looked fine even though it's one size smaller than I usually wear, and refuse to let my late twenties belly fat hang out comfortably. I love them, though. They're embroidered with old-school hearts and sayings, they're high-waisted and flared, and they make me feel like my legs can go for days.

But I digress. I have to focus. I need to finish this essay. Start on my book.

I need to write something compelling, or, at the very least, something “shareable” (hold on a sec while I swallow the mini vomit that just came in my mouth). All this after 8 hours spent on the same chair, doing stuff that actually makes my bank balance go up (unlike said jeans).

But my mind is blank, eyes barely open.

I’m so tired.

Mentally drained.

It's been one of those days where what I'm trying to achieve feels immense. My goals loom over me. I can't see the incremental small steps to the top anymore, just how far the finish line still is. And it's far. To the moon and back far.

A tear rolls down my cheek. I'm not crying; the harsh blue light of my screen is just aggressively drying out my eyes. Though it would feel good to cry, to shut down my laptop, climb into bed, open another screen, and indulge in one of the few Netflix gay romcoms.

I strip off my jeans and inspect the mark the seat left on my ass.

“Tomorrow it’ll be gone”.

Tomorrow I can start again.

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