Recursion

Time was running out. Coffee and pessimism replaced the blood in my veins. I knew that a comedy writing contest would be stimulating and challenging. Unfortunately, I eventually realized my creativity was stifled. I watched my thought bubbles wander away, popping into nonexistence as I desperately

reached out and attempted to collect them.
My boyfriend was summoned by my audible discouragement. “What about some self-defecating humor?” He suggested ingenuously.
“Don’t you mean…” I observed his guileless grin. “Yes. Brilliant,” I teased.
I turned to my dog, who stared at me with pure, sinless eyes. Maybe, I thought, I could reason with her. “Please,” I begged her, now reversing our roles, “help me.” She sneezed. A literary genius.
Dispirited, my hands arrived at my face. I massaged my brow in an absurd effort to seduce my brain into gifting me ingenuity. My enticement was painfully rejected.
“Fart jokes are always funny,” my boyfriend smirked.
“Fart jokes are NOT always funny,” I sniggered.
Hopelessness consumed me. I was surrounded by amoebas.
I looked at the contest guidelines again, the required theme mocking me with its linguistic and philosophical superiority. “Recursion”? How on earth was I supposed to articulately post this element into my story? I was cursed, or maybe recursed, I chuckled to myself.
I was always taught to write what I know, which was limited mostly to procrastination and over-caffeination. I began writing frantically, simultaneously reminding myself of my deadline. I scrawled out the words, “Time was running out…”

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