if ceilings could talk (H (1/1)

Jiyong grumbles. “Fine.” “Fine,” he repeats, in case the darkened ceiling of his room didn’t hear him the first time.  Jiyong gropes for his glasses somewhere on his nightstand, pointedly ignores the neon glow of his alarm clock glaring at him to go to sleep. He sits up, sets his Macbook on his lap and flips it open. He taps an impatient fingernail against the trackpad, rests his chin atop his balled-up left hand as he waits for his browser to load. “This is stupid,” Jiyong mutters, but clicks on the create a new blog button anyway. He uses two fingers to type on his keyboard, snorts at himself after spelling out diMpLEz on the password box. Jiyong stretches his arms over his head, lets go of the crumpled napkin he’s been clutching since he fell face-first on his bed more than two hours ago. He takes a deep breath, pinches the bridge of his nose, and starts to write.  Jiyong’s private journal