The shroud of night creeps up on the small metropolitan and engulfs it. The lights go out, and everyone sleeps, well, everyone but me that is. One light is left burning here, the light in the cramped, outdated kitchen where I sit, attempting to write my personal narrative. It’s 11 o’clock, and I’ve got half a paragraph down, and it’s due first thing in the morning. I can’t go to sleep because I’ll stress out about it until dawn, and I can’t write because the biggest case of writer’s block—no, writer’s Berlin wall— known to man has lodged itself into my brain and I can’t break it down. My laptop is almost dead and I can’t find my charging cord or my flash drive—but hey, there’s really nothing to save so far.

The seconds turn to minutes and minutes turn to hours as I stare at the intimidating blank text document. It’s like it was teasing me—laughing at me because I couldn’t slap words onto it as quickly as I normally could. I want to die right here. It’s only the third week of school and I’m already swamped in homework, forgetting important assignments. The tin pan across the table once contained a fresh cheesecake, but the cake had been devoured hours ago, and about two thirds of a gallon of milk washed it down. I was stuffed with delectable cheesecake and sweet milk, but my document was anything but stuffed. I feel a headache coming on as the screen flickers and I’m getting aggravated. The wall won’t break, and I’m left with nothing more than a big fat F in the morning.

I want to bang my head on the oak table and scream, but I’m sure the neighbors wouldn’t appreciate it, and it won’t help the headache anymore than staring at the blank page on my screen, . Janice is yelling at me from her bedroom, telling me to go to sleep, but I don’t care. I’m not getting an F on this assignment, no matter how long it will take me or until I fall asleep at this computer in the middle of a sentence. I’ll take the latter, because it doesn’t look like I’ll be finishing anytime soon.
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