Good writers don't have to rely on inspiration. But I do. I rely very heavily on it. It's like an opiate and if I don't get it, I'll quickly find myself shivering on the floor and vomiting into my Spiderman wastebasket.

My laptop has abandoned me. I'm not completlely by surprise. The feisty little machine had been slowly breaking my heart for the past year and a half. First, the sound went away. Then, my video capability. My CD drive became more functional as a drink coaster than anything else. But I did not despair because I still had my crappy Wordpad and my fickle internet connection.

Now, as I sit in the University library at 5:50 in the morning (I've been here since 11 pm) and I stare at the little heap of dead stories in my computer tray I wonder if there is some way to take off my pants without immediately being pepper-sprayed by security. And, if there is, will I have enough time to write ten pages of fiction?

It's not too late, though. My roommates have computers. I have friends with computers. I have three hours before I actually have to be at an actual class, and 7 hours until this story is due. I'll think of something.

Won't I?

Hmm. Allegedly, there is some sort of literary magazine that is accepting what is commonly referred to as "submissions." I may submit something if I can get over the terminology.

Because in general I submit to no one! Only to abstract concepts like hunger, weakness, temptation, malaise, and dinosaur comics!

Thus I contemplate.

Heh, I'll send them some poetry. Now who is submitting to whom?

I have nothing to lose, but I can't shake this nagging feeling that I'm someone's literary bitch.