Keep All Paper Away From Me After Midnight

I've been writing for a couple hours every day.  There are first drafts and penciled marks everywhere.  It's very professional.  An unfortunate side effect of my responsible habit is my tendency to turn everything into a story.  This is especially true at night, when I lie in bed and my creativity decides to wake up.  Last night I kept turning sentences over in my head until I had to turn my light back on and hunt for paper and pen.  This morning I read what I'd written.  It's quite genius, which of course means, yikes, I wrote this some time after midnight.  I don't bother to hide my weirdness that late at night, I suppose.

For your amusement:

A chair popped, or a floorboard settled.  Maybe the drawers were shifting in the dresser.  Whatever made the noise, it startled Janie from her almost-sleep.  "What the frak?" she moaned blearily.  "Shouldn't furniture be stationary?"

Her parents had taught her never to curse, but then she'd seen Battlestar Galactica, and frak seemed like a good compromise.

Another crack from somewhere in the room.  "I hate you!" she shouted, and threw a pillow in the offending noise's direction.  She hit something that oughtn't have been hit, and now there were lots of noises.  They didn't bother her, though, because she knew what their cause was--her.

Janie regretted the loss of her decorative candle collection, but even more she missed her pillow.  She tried to will it into her hand, but unfortunately, Jedi powers didn't magically activate after midnight.  She flomped onto her stomach and grumbled into her remaining pillow.

A last candle hit the floor, late to the party or maybe suicidal in the face of the great candle massacre.  Janie gave it a pass because she valued a cushy headrest more than teaching that candle a lesson.

The next great American novel, obviously.  Though I am quite pleased with the word "flomped."  I'm like Shakespeare.