Grotesque White Creature

I didn't remember to wash off the spot. Such was my relief, upon finally switching off the computer, that it slipped my mind entirely. It looks bigger today. I must be imagining things. Either that, or it's some sort of creeping spore, out to take over my wall. (Not likely. I touched it--it's dry as a bone. Too dry to be alive.)

I finished my no-good short story yesterday, and also a mean limerick against someone named Daryl. I stared at the Notepad file with "NOVEL" written in it for a while, and added the words "Howard Glassman." What, I'm going to write a novel about Howard Glassman? The spot on the wall would be more exciting. Maybe it's an alien spot, spying on me for the mothership. That might make a good novel.

Space Journal, day 1009:

Planted a observational device in a tall concrete structure, for the purpose of monitoring life in sector #3206-AE-8. A grotesque white creature came and sat directly in front of it for several hours. At times, I thought the creature might be aware of the device, but it didn't deactivate it. Instead, it planted itself in front of a large glowing object, and began to tap on a filthy black object with a pair of bony appendages. This behaviour continued for several hours. Purpose remains to be ascertained. Intelligence unlikely.

Yeah, I think I'll get rid of the spot today. This line of thinking cannot be healthy.

It's America's Next Top Model night, tonight. I'd better come up with something good today, so I don't feel guilty watching it. I mean, it's shameful enough already, filling my head with that sort of rubbish. I don't need the added disgrace of having wasted five hours writing garbage. (Oh, let's face it--nothing could make this more disgraceful. Of all the shows on TV, I've got to watch that one? Worse still, I heard they'll be having Canada's Top Model soon. If I watch two reality series, will my brain rot twice as fast?)

More! More! I can't get enough!

This novel business is terrible. I still haven't thought of anything to say. I'll probably end up writing another short story today, or maybe some chase scenes. (If I strung all the chase scenes together, forming one giant chase, would that count as a novel? It would be like The Running Man, but without the...without the story. Augh. What a disaster. What a pain. What am I thinking? Four hours and forty-four minutes to go. Better get on with it, then.)