Categories > Celebrities > Fall Out Boy
Writing kills brain cells
4 ReviewsIt's...um...a one shot, I guess. I was daydreaming it up when I couldn't write anything else. Heheh, who /wouldn't/ be inspired by Patrick? ;]
"Saturdayyy! When these open doors were open ended-"
I groan and hit the snooze button on my iPod alarm clock. I bury my face in the warm covers.
"Five more minutes!" I snap at the clock.
"Saturda-ay! Pete and I att-" my clock persists.
"Alright, alright!" I cry angrily, throwing back the covers; an instant chill washes over my body, warm only seconds before. I grab my iPod out of the dock of the alarm clock and climb down from my loft bed, straight into my studio apartment. Band posters and modern art line the walls.
"Mmm..." I moan sleepily and irritably; I had been having a good dream. I slowly fumble with a pair of jeans and a Hedley shirt, and lace up my hot pink Converse. Now, I have but on job; to write. I boot up my laptop and open my novel document. And I promptly stare a it for ten minutes, my fingers not typing a single word.
"I only have three chapters left to write!" I tell the screen. Twenty more minutes pass dully, without inspiration, so I decided to go make myself a cup of coffee in the kitchen.
I return to the living room, steaming mug in hand, and my cat darts in front of me, weaving his sleek, cream-colored body in and out of my legs. Shrieking, I stumble forward, spraying the oriental rug with the dark liquid. A vein pulses in my temple, and frustration envelopes me. I slam the now half-full mug onto the coffee table and storm back to my laptop, not bothering to clean up the spill.
"Screw coffee!" I snap at the screen. Twenty more minutes pass; the frustration of writers block takes it's toll, and I hit my head three times on the keyboard. I attempt to lower my head onto the keyboard once more, but-
"Lexi, what are you doing?" a voice asks cautiously.
I spin around in my chair; Patrick stands there, my front door open behind him.
"Writing." I mumble, regretting giving him that extra key. I straighten up in my chair.
"You kill brain cells doing that, you know?" he says, looking amused.
"What, writing?"
Patrick laughs;
"No, moron, hitting your head on the keyboard."
"Oh." I giggle.
"See, it's happening already."
I roll my eyes and sigh.
"I wouldn't be surprised if writing kills brain cells, though."
Patrick smiles and gently kisses my cheek; shivers run up and down my spine. Now that's inspiration! I think as I begin to type, Patrick's arms wrapped around me.
I groan and hit the snooze button on my iPod alarm clock. I bury my face in the warm covers.
"Five more minutes!" I snap at the clock.
"Saturda-ay! Pete and I att-" my clock persists.
"Alright, alright!" I cry angrily, throwing back the covers; an instant chill washes over my body, warm only seconds before. I grab my iPod out of the dock of the alarm clock and climb down from my loft bed, straight into my studio apartment. Band posters and modern art line the walls.
"Mmm..." I moan sleepily and irritably; I had been having a good dream. I slowly fumble with a pair of jeans and a Hedley shirt, and lace up my hot pink Converse. Now, I have but on job; to write. I boot up my laptop and open my novel document. And I promptly stare a it for ten minutes, my fingers not typing a single word.
"I only have three chapters left to write!" I tell the screen. Twenty more minutes pass dully, without inspiration, so I decided to go make myself a cup of coffee in the kitchen.
I return to the living room, steaming mug in hand, and my cat darts in front of me, weaving his sleek, cream-colored body in and out of my legs. Shrieking, I stumble forward, spraying the oriental rug with the dark liquid. A vein pulses in my temple, and frustration envelopes me. I slam the now half-full mug onto the coffee table and storm back to my laptop, not bothering to clean up the spill.
"Screw coffee!" I snap at the screen. Twenty more minutes pass; the frustration of writers block takes it's toll, and I hit my head three times on the keyboard. I attempt to lower my head onto the keyboard once more, but-
"Lexi, what are you doing?" a voice asks cautiously.
I spin around in my chair; Patrick stands there, my front door open behind him.
"Writing." I mumble, regretting giving him that extra key. I straighten up in my chair.
"You kill brain cells doing that, you know?" he says, looking amused.
"What, writing?"
Patrick laughs;
"No, moron, hitting your head on the keyboard."
"Oh." I giggle.
"See, it's happening already."
I roll my eyes and sigh.
"I wouldn't be surprised if writing kills brain cells, though."
Patrick smiles and gently kisses my cheek; shivers run up and down my spine. Now that's inspiration! I think as I begin to type, Patrick's arms wrapped around me.
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