why be in a burlap sack if you can't get beaten?

I have a writing assignment to hammer out by Monday for my counselor.  A vision of my life in a year.  I don't believe in rough drafts, as they don't provide instant gratification.  I can't even move on from the first two sentences without clawing at the skin of my nails, frustrated at where my writing's gone.  The idea comes at the end of each sentence.  That reminds me, I'm going to go to the 99 cent store, pick me up a little ruler.  I've always wondered, but I don't want you seeing what I'm searching for the day.  I told her, if I can't impress you, I'm not going to write it.  She laughed and asked if I'm a perfectionist.  I'm debating whether I can't get anything out of leaving the assignment to its own weight.  I'd have to stop for a moment.  No.

Or how far is it to follow through on the impulse to profess my love for her?  I could do it in a clever way.  Regardless of the outcome, what I get out of it is a shockwave through my day; for after all, at this stage, me telling her I love her is like me telling her I've started throwing up after binge meals as a way to cut corners on gym milage, which I have, and I'll tell her that.  Before or after, I don't know.  Though I may lose the excitement and anticipation seeing her gives my days, the meaning the fantasy somehow holds, like God came up with dreams, and Man with pseudonyms.