{"sf1_id":230306,"sf2_id":"3egb7AW1","title":"The Procrastinators Dilemma","author":"Terry Allen","words":161,"posted_at":"2011-03-13T07:36:00.000Z","tags":["Alcohol","Procrastination","Writers block","prose"],"url":"https://fse.anthro.fr/stories/230306-the-procrastinators-dilemma","original_url":"https://sofurry.com/s/3egb7AW1","image_url":"https://cdn.sofurryfiles.com/submissions/thumbnails/8b/d0/8bd0b3ab-d364-4773-b92c-4f184de60975","description":"","content":"\u0026nbsp;\u0026nbsp;\u0026nbsp;\u0026nbsp; The sun looks sick and diseased in the backround, it's light a pale and ghastly yellow, spilling over the stark white piece of paper before me. I breathe a sigh of frustration. The pen is cold and slippery in my clammy palm, as if even it didn't want me to finish writing. I wipe my palms on the grubby denim of jeans that haven't seen the inside of a washing machine in just shy of a month. The acrid smell of stale sweat and tobacco invade my nostrils like a plague. I drop the pen, listening the the dull thud as it hits the shag carpet beneath me. I lean towards my whiskey flask, cool and slick with precipitation, it invites me to drink deeply and forget my troubles. I put my lips to the metal flask, and swallow the last bit of sweet nectar it holds. I think to myself that maybe I'll have more inspiration tomorrow. Always tomorrow.\n\n  \n  \n\n"}