Your brain is telling you, hey buddy, let’s take a nap, and you’re responding with a I don’t have time for this shit right now, brain. You’re telling it you have too much work to get done. You can nap when you’re dead. Your brain says you’re gonna be dead soon enough if you don’t chill out for a moment. The world won’t end if you nod off for a few, but your body might if you don’t give it an hour or two to recharge. You continue ignoring your brain and attempt to continue revising your latest piece of shit novel, but you’re having trouble staying in your chair, so you drag your laptop over to the bed and lie down on your stomach. You prop up a pillow underneath your chin and return to your manuscript. Your brain tells you this isn’t going to end well and you tell your brain to go fuck itself. Then you blink, and forty minutes later you open your eyes to find your face smashed into your keyboard and two thousand random new words have appeared in your book. Just complete nonsense. Meanwhile, your brain is laughing and trying not to say it told you so. So you crack your neck and delete all the nonsense face-typed words and attempt to work again, only to pass right back out. An hour later, your brain is smoking a cigarette and sighing contently next to you, saying now that wasn’t so bad, was it?