Twas the night before Christmas, and I had writer's block,
My anguish increased with each tick of the clock.

"My readers are waiting!" I fretfully said,
"For an update on Chemistry, Listen Closely, or Head!"

Then from downstairs, I heard a great crash.
I thought it was the cat, just being an ass.

I went to go check, to find what she'd broken,
And hoped that my parents had not awoken.

Then what to my sleep-deprived eyes should appear
But a fictional, green-eyed, guitar-playing queer!

Garen sprawled on the couch with a soda in hand
He flipped through the channels 'til he found TV Land.

He glanced at our presents, their paper and bows,
But all I could stare at was his silly clothes.

He was a tacky-ass Santa (like the ones in the malls)
And I said to myself, "I must be trippin' balls!

These boys are not real, I've made them all up!"
"No shit," he retorted, "Dude, what's in that cup?"

My protest was quick: "I swear it's just cider!
I need it to stay up to pull this all-nighter.

I promised my readers I'd update again
At least four more times in two thousand and ten."

"That's pretty ambitious," Garen Claus observed.
"And rewards for their patience are greatly deserved.

But I wonder, Ohio, are you up to the task?
You seem very stressed. Want to borrow my flask?"

"The story is easy, I've got it all planned!"
And I showed him the notes I'd scribbled down on my hand.

"You're not in the next chapter, but you're in all the rest.
I think most of the readers still like you the best."

"As they well should," Saint Garen replied,
With all of his douchey smugness and pride.

"Now I don't see the problem. You know the whole plot!
Let me borrow your laptop, let me see what you've got."

I hid my computer and snarled in rage,
"It's still in the early unedited stage!"

"You're being an ass," the Garen Claus snapped.
"Now just let me see it, or you're gonna get slapped."

I gave him the laptop reluctantly
And waited for him to begin scolding me.

I needn't wait long, he started quite quick.
Who knew that the boy could be such a dick?

"You've got barely ten words!" he yelled in my face.
"The rest of the page is a blank fucking space!

Where's all the sex? All the swearing and drugs?
Then all the apologies, kisses and hugs?

Right now I'm in rehab and Travis is sad.
I'm sure my friend Ben's doing equally bad.

And what about Alex and my best friend James?
Dropping that plotline would be totally lame.

You gave us these problems, and then you stopped writing
Right in the middle of the bitching and fighting."

"Don't you see that I know that?" I pathetically wailed.
"The story's unfinished! It's ruined! I've failed!"

And then he became even more of a jerk.
"Stop being a brat and just get to work.

So help me God if you go on Formspring,
I'll steal your computer and run over the thing.

And while we're at it, uninstall Solitaire.
Stop baking cupcakes and dying your hair.

Put down the remote, or I'll have to get vicious.
We both know you don't need to watch Jerseylicious."

"See that's where you're wrong!" I began to protest.
"I need to see  Gigi and Gail and the rest!"

The boy rolled his eyes and pushed me down in a chair.
"'Til this chapter is finished, you'll have to stay there.

I'm tired of rehab, I want to go home.
I want to see Travis and stop being alone.

You've left the whole story in such a sad state,
With only four chapters left to our fate!

We need you to help us, we need you to write.
It might take you an hour, it might take all night.

This five-year-old story needs to be done.
Travis needs to decide which boy is The One!"

I shrugged, "But I know that. I chose ages ago.
I suppose I can tell you, if you really must know."

"Don't try for a cop-out! Just write it all down!"
Garen said as he settled himself on the ground.

"Now, I plan to stay til you've done Forty-Seven.
But you might want to hurry, it's almost eleven."

I sighed and returned to the Word document,
Hoping for inspiration to hit.

Then finally, it came! It hit me quite hard!
I couldn't help but run out to the snow-covered yard.

"I know what I'll write!" I yelled into the sky.
"I know what I'll do with the sad, freckled guy!"

"Yeah, that's great for him," Garen said from behind me,
"But I think you could do with a little reminding.

You've got so many characters. Don't forget about us!
I promise to try not to kick up a fuss.

I just want some closure, some finality.
The story should end (somewhat happily).

Now get back in the house, now go start to type.
Try to go live up to some of your hype."

"Thank you, Garen Claus," I said smiling brightly.
"This visit was fun. We should do this nightly."

Garen just stared at me, he stared and he blinked,
Maybe just to give himself time to think.

"I'm not sure if you're stupid, I'm not sure if you're high.
But this moment here is our final goodbye.

It's not that I haven't enjoyed conversation,
But it's fairly clear I'm a hallucination.

I'm fiction, you moron. I don't fucking exist.
Now go write the story, don't try to resist."

I watched as he sauntered back out to his car,
Probably on his way to a club or a bar.

The Ferrari's engine started to roar,
But Garen leaned out the window to say something more.

"I feel I should say 'Merry Christmas' to you,
But that's pretty awkward, since I'm kind of a Jew.

So I'll say 'Happy Holidays' or something instead.
Now go write that chapter and head off to bed!"

As he drove off, the moonlight shone on the car's hood.
I never saw him again, which is probably good.

See, Forty-Seven's not done, which I'm sure you believe.
I just said it would be so that Garen would leave.

I'll write it so soon, I'll post it this week!
(And the rest of the lines you're used to hearing from me)

I didn't think how to end this; it got out of control.
I'm rhymed my way into quite a big hole.

But I've made a promise, so I've gotta go write.
Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.