Sloth.

Physical, mental, or spiritual fatigue.

Artist: #1: @th3wanderer__on Instagram. #2: @emo.devotee on Instagram.

Plot: Ryan, a famed novelist, doesn't see the point to trying anymore.

::

Sleep is a beautiful thing. Anything can happen when you're sleeping! You can dance across cotton candy clouds, kiss a lover, explore a quaint city. You can slay dragons, rule the world, build and destroy. Sleeping nourishes, replenishes, regenerates. Sleep is blessed, sacred, healing.

Or, it would be, if I didn't fucking do it constantly.

But I can't help the fact that fantasy is preferable to reality most days.

::

"You need to leave the house." Spencer says firmly, and I stare resolutely past him, examining every crack and flaw in my walls, which are a tasteful shade of seafoam. "I'm working, Spencer. The manuscript can't write itself."

"The manuscript hasn't been written, period!" Spencer snaps. I hesitate. Clench my eyes shut. Inhale.

That's a sensitive subject, and he knows that.

"Okay? So? I just completed my last one. Readers can wait." I say, and Spencer scoffs. "Ryan. You told your publisher that you'd have an epic love story written in the next year. You took five to write your first novel, which 'came to you easily'." He says, and I pinch the bridge of my nose.

"Well, I'm just tired! All the fucking time." I say, looking down. Spencer shoots me a concerned glance. "Do you need to go back to seeing Linda...?" He asks, and I groan.

"No, Spencer, I don't need your wife to psychoanalyze me. Again. Just because you married someone in the mental health field doesn't mean that you're suddenly an expert." I say, crossing my legs. He sighs. "I may not be a mental health expert, but I sure am a George Ryan Ross expert. I know when you aren't mentally all there."

"You make me sound like a lunatic, I swear."

"Not a lunatic. Just severely depressed."

"Spencer," I say, turning towards him, "I have dealt with on and off depression for 12 years. I'm not in danger. I'm just in a... rocky area of that on and off-ness."

"And staying at home, living off Chinese takeaway is really going to help those depressive moods?" He asks. I groan loudly. "Listen, Linda," I say, rolling my eyes, "I am fine. Inspiration will strike soon enough. I am fine." I repeat. Spencer doesn't seem convinced. Whatever. He'll live.

::

"You did what?!" I cry into the phone, disbelieving.

Spencer Smith has done the unthinkable. He set me up. On a date. With a real person, someone I don't even fucking know!

"I got you a date. He's a really nice guy, too. You'll like him. His name is Brendon." He says into the phone. I bite my lip.

Brendon.

It's a stupid name, and I tell Spencer as much.

"Brendon is a stupid name. I don't like it and I probably won't like him."

"Brendon is a pretty name!" He says. I roll my eyes, sighing. Sometimes, he just doesn't get it. "I don't care if he has an amazing name! I don't wanna go out on a date with him. He's probably bad in bed, and ugly, and... a bunch of other stuff."

Spencer sighs, and I can practically see his expression. "Ryan. We've been best friends for years, man. Have I ever done you wrong?"

Visions of horror-filled April Fools days and other various mistakes fill my mind. "Uh, yeah." I say, and he sighs. "Have I ever intentionally done you wrong?" He asks, and I sigh. "No. No, you have not." I grumble.

"Well, then. Look, you'll like Brendon. He's your type, and he's really sweet and cheerful. It doesn't have to be serious, you know." He says, and I scoff. He knows better than anyone that when I get into a relationship, I get into a relationship.

"I don't want to go. Spencer, please don't make me!" I whine, and he sighs. "I'm not making you do anything you don't want to do. But you really should give him a chance... for me? I worry, man." He says, and I bite my lip.

Neither of us are particularly clingy. We aren't open about feelings or emotional, and.... that works for us. But I know he worries about me, worries about my moods and feelings and how I'm doing.

That's what makes us not good friends, but best friends.

"Fine. For you." I mumble, and he laughs. "Awesome. Meet him at Sullivan's on Friday, at 8:30. It'll be under 'Ross.'" He says, before hanging up.

Probably to tell Brendon that I agreed to go on the date.

Fuck.

::

Friday comes around, and so do I. Maybe he's right. Maybe I do need someone new in my life. A muse. Because this novel isn't going anywhere. And my motivation?

Oh, that's long gone.

So grudgingly, I dress up in a button down and slacks, combing the wild curls of my hair back into something resembling tidy hair.

This guy better be worth it.

As I drive there, I try to picture his looks. Spencer said he'd be 'my type', but I don't exactly sit around with my (straight) best friend rhapsodizing about men and their looks. I don't even really have a 'type', not that I'm aware of anyway. He probably just said it to get me to come, the asshole.

I slowly pull into the parking lot, stopping the car and grabbing my keys. I should be anxious, but honestly, I'm just skeptical and curious. I open the door to the smell of food, and my stomach instantly growls. Did I forget to eat today? Probably.

Well, at least I'll get a decent meal out of this, regardless of how the date turns out.

I'm twenty minutes early, due to me doing literally nothing but fantasizing about the date all day long. Best case scenario, I figure, is instantly falling in love with Brendon and then eloping. Worst is going home with him, only for him to murder me. Hopefully it'll be somewhere in the middle, as I'm not ready for marriage or death yet.

Someone walks up to our booth, and I look up to lock eyes with a waiter, who has a shy smile and is fidgeting slightly.

Holy Hell.

Fuck this Brendon guy. I do have a type, and it's him.

Tall, but shorter than me, with a curvaceous and sturdy looking body. Everything about him is big: big eyes that are a rich shade of brown, big lips that are pink and heavenly, and a really big ass. So pretty and perfect. God, I hope Brendon looks like him, because if so, I'd totally take him home.

"Hi." He says, his smile growing as his eyes land on my face, and I smile back at him. "Hi. Um, my date hasn't arrived yet, but I'll just get a drink to start." I mumble, picking up the menu and scanning the drinks. "Can I have the house red?"

He laughs slightly, his full lips twitching. "You're Ryan?" He asks, and I nod. He must have seen my name from the list of reservations.

Well then, sure. And what is your 'date' going to have?" He quips, and I hum thoughtfully. "No clue. Haven't met the guy." I say, and he nods in understanding. "A blind date? Are you excited?" He asks, something joking in his tone. I don't get the joke, am not part of it, but I chuckle anyways. "Maybe