I quickly open my laptop and start a new blank document. The deadline is tomorrow. My fingers move quickly over the keyboard. "Blog 29" is written at the top of the screen. I stop. I stare at the blank screen. It mockingly stares back at me.

"What in the world should I write about?" I think to myself. My room is silent except for the anxious drumming of my fingers on my desk. I sit there for what feels like hours. My friends supply me with a long grocery list of good ideas for me, but none of them seem to stick. Every idea I have is rejected faster than it even came to my mind. Too cheesy, too boring, been done too many times before.

"This is a toxic relationship, and I need to cut out all the negativity in my life." I practice my break-up speech with writing to myself in the mirror. "I am sorry, writing. It's not you, it's me I swear." I try again. I am ready to break off all ties I've ever had with writing. I am so done. Over. It. I angrily shut my laptop dramatically and storm out of my room. I cannot even stand to look at that blank document anymore. I hate it. I really do. I am done, and I mean it this time.

At dinner I absentmindedly twirl my spaghetti on my fork. My sister knocks on the bathroom door because I am taking too long in the shower. I was staring into space. I scroll through Instagram with no emotion and listen to some sad songs on Spotify. Defeated, I tuck into bed. I shut off the lights.

Five minutes later, my eyes pop open. "That's it!" I cry. I victoriously run over to my laptop and begin typing furiously. I do not stop until my tired eyes are squinting at a document full of writing. I swell with pride. "I guess writing is not that bad, after all." I think to myself sleepily. I turn over to the clock, reading a time well past midnight and fall asleep, full of content. Until next time.