"Here I am, living the dream." she sighed as her faucet ceased to function the third time this week. She blankly stared at the piles of garbage heaping up inside her sad excuse of a kitchen, which is pretty similar to the stories she posts online. That's all she ever does after all, produce massive amounts of garbage all day whether online or irl.

Nevertheless, just as usual she sits back in her desk chair and types away writing paragraphs upon paragraphs for new chapters in the hopes of gaining new readers. Today was her lucky day, as she scrolled over to her works to find out she got  3 whole new readers. It meant a lot to her that a couple people would sometimes read her story, even if she wondered why anyone would even bother to read it. Still, 143 readers is a lot better than 140. 

The issue for her is that she's been awake for over 40 hours and can barely even read what she's typing on the screen at this point. 'It doesn't matter' she thinks 'it's not about the words it's about the emotion'. Even knowing that the day after, the incoherent mess of strings of letters resembles the kind of writing a drunk scotsman would do after picking a fight with his laptop.

But she persevered best she could by pepping herself up, saying that staying awake a while longer isn't a big deal. 40 hours, 41 hours, 50 hours, 80 hours, what does it matter? Only when she's done writing her hot garbage is she allowed to rest. Only when her fans have had their share can she finally rest. 

Though her starved, tired body soon caught up to her, and at the height of pepping herself up she fainted, unceremoniously flopping over in a final keyboard smash. Such is how all of her days go, wake up, get a reader or two, write, smash head on table when falling asleep, rinse and repeat.