She opened the notebook, which had previously remained dauntingly empty, despite the growing percentage of her day spent thinking she ought to write in it. After staring onto the blank first page (found after the cautiously written ‘belongs to’ on the inside cover), she decided that perhaps hand-writing a novel was too Edison. Not Emerson, because that would imply that she spent any sort of time in nature at all, but Edison, because he supposedly failed a thousand times before success. And to be blunt, failure was constantly on her mind.

This stemmed not only from copious reinforcement of life experience, but more recently from the same ritual that occurred a few weeks before, when she had opened up a new document to begin writing. Curious as to her previous forays into penning prizewinning literature, she opened a file curiously titled “Downhill.” Grimacing at her supposed cunning, it was needless to say a disappointment when the only sentence on the page was:

I think things started going downhill when I realized I was having sex to a Portishead album.

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