murderous.

V. stressed. Must tumblog and…blog. Stress. Mental stress. Vocal stress. Wardrobe stress. Eyelid stress.

Band. No voice. I’m sorry. I know the late nights and excessive chocolate concoctions are not helping at all. I know I should be taking ice cream (the creamy kind) and pei pa ko. I’m sorry if I come down with a fever and start wheezing like an asthmatic patient tomorrow.
Drama. No (improved) script. I’m sorry. I should have known it was a not just a ridiculous but awful idea to try writing next to the idiot box. Okay, technically it can’t be called the idiot box because there is no longer a “big box attached to the back of the TV” (source: Grown Ups). I should have known it was not just a ridiculous but awful idea to try writing next to the idiot panel. I know I came up with a corny, sappy, clichéd, and – most obviously – crappy ending. I’m sorry for being such a horrible director/scriptwriter/whatever-you-wanna-call-me, especially considering I have no idea where I put all your phone numbers.
Debate. I’m sorry, because I know you’ve placed your faith and trust and hope in me. I’m scared to disappoint, scared of my commitment level. I know you’ve sacrificed so much for this, and I know I should only do the same. I’ll try, promise.
I want ice cream. I want ice cream. I want ice cream.
It is the only exception.
That and What the Day Owes the Night by Yasmina Khadra.