DAMN JAMES BLUNT!

Ahem, I've been at the laptop for well over 4 hours now, I've actually managed to cut down 300 words of this short story, which apparently isn't short enough, and I still have another 300 to eliminate into the depths from wence they emerged. Blast them! Insolent little Times New Roman typescript pests.
I've almost worked up the nerve to scrap the entire thing and just dish out a new tale...still have that lingerring idea of Post-Second Coming story about an evil Rock Star, but fear it might verge on the cliche and overly dramatic...not to mention, is probably yet another too-big-to-develop-in-5,000-words plot.

...Hey me, have you noticed that I'm talking to myself?
me: So you are! Oh joy!
me: No, not 'oh joy!', me, we've come dangerously close to sounding self indulgent.
me: How so?
me: 'Dear diary, today Mr. Rochester complimented my imaculately pruned rodedendrons. I dare say he has taken a liking to me...I am after all a wickedly charming girl, he a dashing young blade, and the rodedendrons a mere excuse. Not to mention they vex me. I am terribly vexed by them. I shall get Striker to urinate at their roots...it will truely be a test of Mr. Rochesters affections.' -so.
me: aha. I see.
me: What to do?
me: ...umm, go to bed?
me: An Excellent idea! Lets.