Writer's block, they call it. It never seemed this difficult to motivate myself to do English homework before. Just look at the poem and i feel a tingle in my gut that says "quick think of something else to do!", and an itch in my legs that says "get me away from this" and then
DING! the inevitable bright yellow (at least I think it's yellow, poor colour deficient me) lightbulb appears above my head, with a list of alternative activities, ranging from watching cooking shows on TV to playing Microsoft Hearts to sorting the Hundreds-and-Thousands by colour.
This Sylvia Plath ah;
Always write emo things one,
I'd kill myself too.
Aha! Back at you, Sylvia. Why couldn't you have specialised in suicidal HAIKUS. And now I catch sight of the vaguely annotated Tulips in front of the computer. Oh wait, Mum just bought more Hundreds-and-Thousands...
