Calmly I wait for agitation and delirium to override my ego’s inability to wait for and work for a shitty first draft. The two competitors, Insecurity and Overconfidence, face each other like former friends finally at the realization that only one can, in the end, hold the prize. I use “prize” loosely since only an addled brain sits flabby and tired on the podium. Coffee with bitter energy, like spinach to a swollen sailor, endows my electric pen to forgo shame and embrace kinetic triumph. Phallic imagery rise up and may the shit flow so torrential that even the possibility of else, clean be forgotten. May foul sick style overwhelm the reader into panic-fueled praise: I’m ready.