I read over the Ficly story that I just wrote. It seems hackneyed and unoriginal. It expresses the ideas that I wanted to get across, but even I don’t enjoy reading it. I should just bin the damn thing, but I publish it anyway. If anyone out there wants to read it, they can. I wasted my time writing it; they can waste their time reading it. It isn’t worth worrying about, so I carry on with my day.

I check over the essay that I had to write for my English class, Multiple Levels of Metaphor in Shakespeare’s Titus Andronicus. What was I thinking last night? I don’t think I’ve ever written any as pretentious as this. Do I hand it in? If I don’t, I’ll definitely get an F. If I do, well, maybe a D. I’ll hand it in.

School goes poorly. The calculus quiz was a lot tougher than expected. I’ll be surprised if I pass the course.

When I get home, I check in at Ficly to find that two sequels have been written for the story that I published that morning. One of the sequels isn’t horrible, but the other is crap.