Dear Kourtnie,
I know you have a busy life right now, but please, I’m begging you, write a bloody chapter for your book. THIS EFFING INSTANT. If you do not comply with my humble request, I’m afraid you will:
- Suffer from five types of cancer. With no medical insurance.
- Wake up at 9:05 AM to a dead alarm clock and a clown painting your nose blue.
- Realize you will never get medical insurance because your cat chewed up your car keys.
- Realize you will never get this blue paint off your nose because the water was shut off by your favorite Irvine Apartment Company.
- (Realize you are repeating the word “realize” and need to write up a bug about it.)
- Eat the cat litter with a plastic spoon, then gain 30 lbs. from illogical litter binging.
- Fight an epic, metamorphic spoon that voltrons into Mr. Ass-kicking Spork, then stabs vampiric-like wounds into the side of your neck.
- Explain to your coworkers – after mysteriously getting to work without a car – that your wounds have nothing to do with a spork and everything to do with Twilight.
- Stop breathing. *TERROR-STRICKEN SILENCE*
- Recognize you’ve been possessed. Now you must submit to blabbering about books you’ve never read, nor intend to read, for the next 36 hours.
- Go home after this exhaustive, sudden “curse” has destroyed your friendships, career and life. It’s also put more updates on Facebook than you normally manage in a year. (So it’s done three updates.)
- Buy a bunch of Yoshi figurines you don’t need.
- Experience lucid dreams, where your guildies, coworkers and potential agents read your blog and think,
“Holy shit, if only she wrote a damn chapter.“
Sincerely,
Your Writers Block
