Has one hour madness already turned into ‘oh shit, what the fuck am I going to write about?’ already?
Or might it have less to do with pure creativity and more to do with ‘Kaycee hasn’t slept properly in a few days, worked nine hours and just wants to watch Supernatural.’
More importantly, is Kaycee really referring to Kaycee in third person?
I mean… really, Kaycee. Who the hell do you think you are? What have you done? You get an arts degree and you suddenly think you’ve won something? You think you can misquote lines from Remember the Titans and pass it off as clever or witty?
You know the type of people who are recognized by a single name? Eccentric musicians and multibillionaires.
And sometimes random basketball players.
Are you one of the richest woman in the world with your OWN television network? Have you been a music icon for three decades but only look a few years older than your daughter? Have you somehow seamlessly transferred from being in a wheelchair on Canadian teen drama into a rap superstar? Do you wear sunglasses whenever you want because you’re the lead singer of the biggest band to have come out of Ireland? Did you marry someone who also goes by their first name and your child together is already so awesome that everyone can look past the fact that you named them after a colour? Voltaire was anagramming his name way before Tom Riddle. I mean, try becoming a latin sensation or winning an armful of Grammies by the time you’re twenty-one.
Oh wait. You can’t. Cause you’re already almost twenty-two and you live in a tiny apartment that hasn’t been cleaned in weeks and you are pretending like it doesn’t smell.
Spoiler: it does.
Plus, you keep calling it an apartment and making an idiot out of yourself in front of all the lovely Scottish people. Then again, that’s better than shouting about wanting high-waisted pants in every department store in Edinburgh when you actually want trousers. Trousers. Not bloody granny panties. Unless you do want those, which would not surprise either of us because you always buy the control top pantyhose.
And now the internet knows you like the security of old lady undergarments.
How did things go so wrong so quickly?
Why are you still awake?
Because you made a promise? A promise to write for an hour a day – no matter what.
Well, here am I. Typing. Occasionally producing reasonably logical and borderline grammatically correct sentences for an entire hour…