. . .

How?

How can I write under these conditions? Calm, man. Calm. I'll try to get something written despite the fact that I've got TELEVISION BLARING IN THE BACKGROUND. No, that doesn't faze me at all. At all at all at all. Maybe just a little bit. That's admitting weakness, man. Never let them see you spit.

Still, if I'm to write, I need a topic. I'm out of practice, here, but a topic would be nice. Anything. Something other than Lou Ferigno. Anything other than Lou Ferigno, come to think of it. There are worse topics, I suppose, but none come to mind immediately. Soldier on, my brother, soldier on.

Now I'm flinching in anticipation of further television, which is deeply silly, since I know there won't be any and Mandie is staring over my shoulder at this junk. Total garbage. I couldn't be more dull if I was intentionally trying, which admittedly I am just at the moment. But not any more, 'cause she's gone now.

Where was I?

Nowhere, really. Noticing Jon's appearance in chatroom.

I couldn't help noticing the bright apples of your cheeks, the red roses of your lips, your skin, like soft porcelein. Will you marry me?

That, for those of you unaware, was a transcription of one of my old gigs I used to do at Faire, and may, if the lord is willing, someday do again. Some day they'll find us, the rainbow connection, the lovers, the dreamers, and Wisconsin. Laaaaa de da deeeee da da dum, da daaa de da deee dee doooooo. Blue mooooon, etcetera etcetera, and so on and so forth, just a little bit longer, whoooah.

I can do better than this. I'm a miserable waste of neurons and neuroses, I admit, but even I can do better than this. I'm more used to making excuses for my own lack of writing than I am used to writing itself, and that is a definite hazard when I care to make the effort and am stymed by my own stupidity. I feel like a traffic hazard.

I'm now putting immense mental effort into creating my own mental blocks so that I can point to them and say, look! It isn't my fault! I have Writer's Block! It's a condition with a name, and thus has legal existance, not unlike a corporation! When what I really have is Nonwriter's Block, which is less fun at parties. Note to self: Consider Halloween.

I put my book somewhere out of reach, and write. Write, dammit! I don't care what kind of nonsense you come out with, just write! Beat up on yourself later. That is yet another delaying tactic. The truth is that I just don't want to write, and you can't make me, nyah nyah. Oh, yeah? I bet you I can put a fist in your face if you try to leave this computer, and that'd be a sight to behold, now wouldn't it? In the meantime, though, while I try to figure out if I meant it, why don't I start on an actual story?

New file. For now. Muahahaha.