Learn Your Liqueurs

Be smug, have a celery

I have an assignment for Creative Writing class.

It's about Gilbert Grape, and fat people. Something like that.
I'm supposed to be this old fart (fortysomething) whose sister died of sleep apnea and was overweight.

My problem is that I'm feeling no connection whatsoever with this story, and also that I intend to go shopping at 3, and it's already 2.30.

So this story is getting in my way of self-fulfillment.

Am I a writer? Am I not a writer? Should I write about how tortured I feel about writing about my 250 kg sister? Or should I whine about how everyone indulged the youngest child?
Can you go to work if you're 250 kg?
Honestly. It's something I can't imagine. Most families would just humiliate their child into skininess.
Also, my left eye is thumping, either as a delayed hangover reaction or to tell me I'm really sick (which will in no way disturb my intended shopping spree), and it is bothering the imaginate section of my brain.

Everytime I try to imagine, it goes like this:

Thump, thump, thump, searing pain, flash of bright light, Google hot guys.

See? How am I supposed to get any work done.

***

Hah. I finished it. I completely deviated the focus from the dead sister to me, the youngest sister.

But now I'm too tired to go shopping.