Old

Turnip mewed softly then began purring, a small motorboat in the form of a white petite cat. She stretched then slid herself into the lap of a girl. The girl sat cross-legged on a queen sized bed, her laptop precariously set on top of a white feather comforter. Her blue fingernail polish made designs as she tapped slowly on the keyboard. She wore a grungy oversized green t-shirt, glasses, and her hair in a sloppy pony tail. Every once in a while she would pause typing, lean over, and plant a kiss on the forehead of her white cat, who would look up at her and meow plaintively.

For awhile, nothing. She couldn’t get her mind to focus on the task at hand. She was thinking in half sentences, the words barely registering in her head, “I’m not old…” she hummed. She did think she was old. She was twenty one, but sometimes age has nothing to do with it.

She wanted to create a successful blog, but she was out of practice. The book she had been writing sat half written shoved inside her bookshelves between two empty notebooks. That meant that she had writer’s block. This blog might be good for her. This blog could also be a horrible idea.

Her right leg was beginning to fall asleep and the house was silent. She wiggled her toes only slightly concerned. “I wonder what makes a blog successful. Plot, maybe. Insightful reasoning could help. A goal of some sort is also a must along with interesting characters.” Her blog had none of those things, yet. In fact, her blog was currently being written in the third person. Maybe she should just give up before someone actually reads it “I have to keep going now. This is good for me. I just need to keep telling myself that. What else would I be doing, anyway?”
She sighed lightly and stretched her neck from side to side. Her fingers drifted from the keys and she moved her mouse to the bottom toolbar and clicked the small blue box that said Facebook. Still, nobody was on. She clicked on the homepage link. Nothing had been updated. She frowned then clicked back onto the Word document and began typing again.

She liked the sound of the keys being pressed with a purpose. It was a rhythm, music. It was the sound of progress. She glanced at the clock. 1:15. She should be sleeping. She liked to be sleeping by 10:30. She was old.