My Version of Don't Ask, Don't Tell

My manuscript sucks.
No, it reeks of decaying dog shit, piled high with cliches, meaningless phrases, and symbolism only a Rosetta Stone could decipher.
Don't ask when I'll be finished, because I'm not sure how long it will take me to burn it ceremoniously. Could be awhile.
Don't ask how it's going. Just look at the stress pimples on my cheeks, the dark chocolate wrappers tucked into my bed sheets, and check my iPod to see the same previously "inspiring" playlist now on repeat. Watch me twitch and convulse when "Electrical Storm" comes on.
No, I will not tell you what I'm doing. I'm writing. I'm editing. No, I'm rewriting. No, I'm hacking away. No, I'm redeciphering. No, I'm pounding my head against my keyboard, because sure enough, even that produces better literature than what I am attempting.
No, I will not tell you what it's about. Because even though it has people, a setting, a climax and a falling action, it's supposed to be about more than that. It's supposed to be about things too flighty to catch and pen.

I haven't sacrificed too much sleep to work on this wretched thing yet. But I'm preparing myself to donate an hour or two of sleep each night in order to punch this thing into shape.