Work. Work.
Damn!
I give up. I shall give it up, I swear this to God!
Frustrated, furious, hacking away at this clunky, pedestrian garbage before me. It's so clearly under par, so obvious that I don't have the damn talent, that I sat at this stupid harpsichord and labored over every plebeian note, that I work and work for a tune so dull and childish that a student could have written it.
I hate this. I hate it. Why is it work for me? Why don't the notes just pour from my soul, glide across the page—damn!
Envy.