Saturday, November 21, 2009


Writer's block, it's called.

Constipation of the brain. A creative bottleneck.

I sit here, wanting to write more than I have in a while, the white screen of my blog set-up glowing back at me mockingly, with absolutely nothing to say. Now, if you wanted to talk to me, even in my depressed state of the moment, I could probably yap till my mouth fell off.

I want to write.

I don't want to toss off any more of that "Whinin' Naff" poetry for a while, because it's boring the only person listening, and that's me. I haven't even had a movie inspire me to write a piece since "Redbelt", and haven't felt kooky enough to dredge one up from the midnight childhood eyeball rub-a-thons for my "Movies I Stayed Up Late For". The book I'm reading is epic, and it's gonna take weeks to finish. No embellishing on that, the one I just finished, "Crooked Little Vein", is so sick I can only discuss it in select company.

Haven't bought any new CDs in some time. My day-to-day life has been riddled with the above mentioned poetry fodder, so I'm not going there any more for a while, it makes it worse.

I want to write.

Is it something as horrible as having nothing to say? God, I don't think I could handle that right now, but it seems to be the case....

So I guess the only thing I have to say is "I have nothing to say."

Hey, I just said something.

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