Unwritten

So this is it. The thing every songwriter, poet and playwright has always written. This chest pain I can't seem to nurse. They say this chest pain sells. Maroon 5 did it. Hemingway did it. Lemony Snicket did it. But till now I can't even write enough profit-making words to be compiled in a thing described in a dictionary as 'book'.

I can't. I'm barren. I'm that boundless dry dessert of Sahara. I'm that 7 years of famine ever happened in Egypt. I'm that infertile womb of 80-year-old Sarah.

And so you know I met someone irresistible recently. He seems to have all the ability to give me another chest pain ... easily. So I told him I'm a lesbian, for I'd rather pass my chance to sell a book.

I'm gonna die tomorrow, anyway.