I can’t write. No seriously. Everything that I type has the overwhelming stench of failure permeating around it. I’m not used to this. Normally I write things of biblical showmanship and long term importance. Not today. Today is like the Old Testament, washed up and irrelevant, not to mention a serious downer. Lighten up, peeps. Check it.
I’m thinking perhaps it is the venue at which I am “writing.” Back in Pennsylvania there is this bistro, (please note: “bistro” is actually in the name of the business. I am not enough of a hipster to use that word on my own, and I’m not cultured enough to know what it means) that has free Wi-Fi and really fantastic kettle-cooked chips. I frequented it regularly, composing soul-seducing prose of global significance. Or flirtatious haikus for my online boyfriends. Whatever. Point is, that was an excellent location for me to get my freak on, from a literary stand point.
Now that I have moved to Tennessee I have been on the hunt for a similar location. For awhile I was spending time at this independent coffee house called Jozlaowerokjaskdljfkjwsw, or some J-word I can’t spell. But I was tired of paying $2.50 for a coffee just to use their sub par internet service. So I have come to use Panera Bread, where I can surf for free and make imaginary love to all the bearded men that spend time there.
Things started out great. I was dazzled by the low-fat smoothies and perfectly reliable appearance of Sexy Bearded Gents (SBG). But today, while sitting in the PB I find myself dumbfounded, unable to produce a single sentence worthy of my 3.5 daily readers.
What has happened to my charming wit and non-cliché turn of phrase? I fear I may have driven away my own creative thoughts by watching too many episodes of “Ice Loves Coco” and binge eating orange freeze pops. I am going to ponder this for the next 22 minutes, allowing time for the ovulation of my creativity to hopefully result in something as entertaining as watching two dragonflies get jiggy with it while hovering over the driver’s door handle of my car. I waited a good 2 ½ minutes before swatting them away. In my experience, that is more than enough time.
The girl who in a past life was a dragon fly
There have been several times these past few weeks when I’ve seen or heard something that could have incited an incredibly profound blog entry about something as important as people who drink the milk left over in a cereal bowl and people who discard it. But with my non menopausal “life transitioning” from a dowdy Pennsylvania girl, to a chic Tennessee woman, (please note, neither of these descriptions have any reflection on who I actually am) I have allowed myself to become intoxicated by both legal and illegal substances enough to distract me from my duties as an unpaid, unappreciated blogger.
I find myself with the constant urge to write and the inability to do so within the parameters of this blog. How many times will I have to ignore the overwhelming desire to blog about the pros and cons of dating a Charles Manson enthusiast? Or try to determine which is the most physically attractive fruit, bunched red grapes or sliced kiwi? I am being stifled both creatively and by the incessant Tennessee heat I am still growing accustomed to.
I need your blessing, reader, to break through the glass ceiling of this topical blog, and be free on the other side, where I can use the written word to express my innermost thoughts on my thighs that rub together and why I will always be alone.
Because this is unimportant and affects no one, I expect massive amounts of feedback. Anytime now.
The girl with textured fingernails
It has been 11 days (or 15,840 minutes in Rent speak) since I have taken time out of my busy and fulfilling life of perpetual unemployment, to write another insignificant posting about my own personal segregations of the human race. I know this has left many a heart broken, dream shattered, and life hanging in the delicate balance of suicide and recreational self mutilation. And for that I do apologize.
I want to say that there is a specific reason for this behavior, but I must confess there is not. In the past 11 days, I have had a shitstorm of a stomach virus (no pun intended), a busy concert-going weekend, and my usual unapologetic laziness to explain my lack of productivity and the general disappointment I bring to my family.
But do you want to know the truth? Even as I sit here typing away at an impressive speed, eloquent streams of prose that will no doubt force all of you to change your soiled delicates at least once during the arousing and hilarious experience of reading this, I do not want to write. My uterus is hemorrhaging, I have spiders and other creatures setting up camp all over my pad (yes, pad – you can suck it if you don’t like my lingo), Bob Dylan is touring in my area a month after I am moving, and the blades on my Ped Egg are really quite dull. Aside from my health, great family, and excellent well-being, there aren’t many things to be happy about.
I need some inspiration or a heavy dose of opium to get out of this funk. I want to run in place for ten minutes in sweaty slow motion and pour Gatorade all over myself, getting energized to write a blog so perfect my three readers will wet dream over it.
I will do this. I will write a blog entry, I will kill a spider, I will use steel wool on my heel if need to be. I was told many moons ago, that idle hands are the ones we touch ourselves with. I will beat this.
The girl with idle hands