The Nag

I’ve sold millions of books worldwide but I’m not famous. My wife takes the credit, does the interviews, the marketing. It’s not that I don’t want to do that but I can’t. If I stop writing, the Nag hurts me. My wife hates the attention but she does it for the income. I don’t remember what happened but there was an accident involving a baseball. My wife told me what’s happened hundreds of times but the Nag doesn’t let me remember.

The Nag cares only about itself yet knows it cannot live without me. A few minutes a day, I’m allowed to stop writing to eat, drink, and sleep. Any alteration in the schedule and it twists the insides of my brain crippling me with pain and agony unlike I’d ever experienced. Paralysis, heart palpitations, and seizures are its favorite punishments.

If I eat too much, the Nag forces my bowels to vacate without my knowledge. Same if I decide to spend an extra few seconds drinking. I’m not allowed to change pants. Sleeping more than two hours a week is a luxury, I fear to know what would happen if I slept longer than twenty minutes at a time. Forget about going outside, I haven’t seen daylight in over three years. Despite having a three bedroom home, I live in a closet.

My wife says I have a neurological issue but the Nag assures me that my wife is wrong. It tells me that if my wife doesn’t keep her opinions to herself, something bad will happen to her. It brings my hand to my throat and squeezes to prove its point.

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