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Feeling lousy, as usual, Meg sat herself down in front of her computer to write. She did this just about every day, or so she liked to think. To say the least, she did it more often than most kids her age. Writing freed her up a bit, just a little. However, as of late, Meg hadn't written anything good. She still tried to write, but she always ended up with sentimental drivvel. But this time, Meg decided, this time it would be different. This time, she would write a masterpiece.

So she settled herself in, placing her not-so-trusty earphones into her ear, willing them to stay in. Oftentimes, the headphones would fall out of her ear for no apparent reason. She hated them and wanted new headphones, but she was never willing to spend her money on such an investment. Not when there were DVDs to buy and manga to read. Reaching out, she pressed the play button on her diskman and music filled her ears. Too loudly, almost. She lowered the volume so that she could hear the voices downstairs, in case anyone needed anything. Not that they would. It was after ten on a school night. The phone wouldn't even ring this late, much less ring and be for her.

The reason she knew this time would be different is that Meg herself was different than she was the last time she tried to write. She had reread The Catcher in the Rye, come out of the closet, become depressed over her mother's sickness, stopped smoking pot, and attained a girlfriend whom she wasn't quite sure she liked all that much. That's a lot of differences for writing. Grinnng widely, she cracked her knuckles and spread her fingers over the keyboard, waiting for inspiration to hit her.

But nothing came. She felt like a world-class asshole, too, just sitting there with her stupid laptop and expensive diskman, doing absolutely nothing when she had homework that she could very well be doing. All of a sudden, Meg felt like banging her head against the desk. If she didn't hurry, she might end up writing a stream of conciousness, and those always turn out pretentious and over-done. One might think that with all the turmoil in her life, she would be able to think of something to write about, but she didn't want to write about her own life. Meg was the type of girl who would feel selfish about everything. And lately she was trying to watch how selfish she allowed herself to be. No one likes a selfish teenager.

Shaking her head vigerously, she forced herself to face the glowing screen. How difficult it was! Her brain felt numb to all ideas. And the more she thought, the less came. At least before she had been thinking! But now, all she could do was stare dumbly at the stupid laptop and feel useless. Why did this always happen to her? All she wanted to do was write!

Meg used to write better. Last summer she had written the best story ever. It was so descriptive and flowey and well-formulated. Actually, it was currently in the process of being published. Nowadays, though, all she ever did was sit around and lament over her lost writing skills. She would read her story and sigh wistfully. But maybe laying off the pot would help her creative juices flow again. Hopefully. She certainly would miss the drug, though. It helped her through some horrible times in life. But now Meg needed a job, so she couldn't do that sort of thing any more. Especially if she worked in a toy store, as she was aiming to do.

As soon as the clock turned to ten thirty, Meg felt the tired pull of gravity on her body, and her eyes willed themselves shut. She was so tired, all of a sudden. Automatically, Meg knew that no writing would be done tonight. Saving the three words she had written ("A life without"), she closed up the laptop and sighed. As she reached up to remove the earphones from her ear, one fell out and hung down over the chair, so she reached down to grab it. Suddenly, she sobbed and collapsed on the floor, crying for all the world as if there was never any sunshine. Her whole body shook, she reached out and grasped the nearest stuffed animal (a bear from her girlfriend) and soaked it with tears. She cried for a good fifteen minutres, not quietly, but not so loud that her mother down the hall could hear her over the oxygen tank.

After the storm subsided, Meg wasn't quite sure what to do with herself. Finally, hiccoughing, she pulled on her pajamas and slid into bed, feeling lousy, as usual.

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Jessie Balick, May 17, 2003