Inspiration intercepted by God punching me in the stomach

I woke up yesterday with a fire in my fingers. I got out of bed with this craving to write and write until my hands were semi-disfigured. You never want to go all the way when it comes to disfigurement. That's serious shit.

It was a lot of writing that I was willing to do right then, which is surprisingly helpful considering that I've been working on a novel for the last six months and have had little inspiration. I think that I could have finished the entire book yesterday if my stomach wasn't attacked by what felt like millions of flesh eating parasites. It was painful and even though it lasted for only a few hours, I was out of commission all day in the creativity department. Thus, no blog post was written and no progress was done on the book. I did discover, however, something worth while about my relationship with my parents.

"Need a bucket?" Mom called from the stairs.

"No. Not yet," I groaned.

"Not yet?! Girl, you'd better make it to the bathroom. You're not five anymore. Get it on the carpet, I kick your ass."

"Kick her ass? You'd be too busy gagging. I would be the one kicking her ass," Dad interjected upon hearing what Mom said.

I guess I'm too old for PARENTAL LOVE AND NURTURING!