. . .

Plant food?

Scribble scribble scribble I will write something this time. Even if it is only this. Even if it is only garbage. I can work with garbage. Lacking even the garbage, I will have even more problems. I hate my life. I hate your life. I hate you, specifically. Not that I know who you are. You could be an unnatural abomination, created by scientists in an underground lab, a twisted mockery of humanity with no redeeming merit of any kind. Doesn't matter. I hate you anyway. You can write, can't you? CAN'T YOU? You can dash off poetry at the stork of a pen. Even your blinks are in morse code, and should someone descramble them they'd find literative works of unbearable genius. You exude Art from every pore.

Me, I ramble. About failing to write. I hate this.

It's not so much that I have writers block. I do, I guess. I suppose that's what this is called. Well, writer's block is supposed to be a passive thing: simply a large concrete wall in your way that keeps you from moving in the direction you want to go. At worst, the wall is built all round you so you can only wander in circles getting nowhere amusing. This... this is more of an active thing. Like some part of my mind is sitting back there plotting my demise. "Eventually, he'll give up hope entirely, and he'll feel suicidal, and then we'll have him!" I'm stronger than that. I think.

I'm also tired and undesiring writing. Ick.

I'm fleeing away from writing. Sitting here trying desperately to find things to do that don't involve me putting fingers to keyboard and typing. Refuse to play solitaire any longer. Which doesn't narrow the field any. Means I can waste my time with email, or The Internet, or pinball, or any of a vast number of general amusements scattered about. Haven't the willpower necessary to avoid them all.

I will still destroy you, thought. If it takes until my dying day.

It'll be slow. What better way to do things than slowly? Many things. It'll be gruesome. Because I like the word. I'm going to continue to plot your demise until your dying day. May it come soon. I'd like to get these thoughts out of my head so I can go back to muttering to myself about how I've lost the feeling in my brain.

Maybe I went to sleep on the wrong nerve? That'd explain everything if I don't look too closely. Yes, I slept on my creativity gland (located on the right side of the body just above where the ear is located on humans). I killed my muse. (Hunting accident. You know how it goes. "BAM! Dammit! I think I just shot the only thing that gives my pathetic life any meaning! My muse! My muse is dead! I wonder how she'd look stuffed!" And all that.) I performed a full frontal lobotomy on myself sans anesthetic on a bet. (The bet being "I bet you wouldn't be stupid enough to stick an ice pick into your frontal lobes and wiggle!" Luckily for them, while I am that stupid, I now have forgotten the bet, so they won't have to pay up unless they make the mistake of mentioning it.)

Body attempting to put brain to sleep. Brain not resisting very hard. Next time write earlier.

I HATE THIS I HATE THIS I HATE THIS I HATE THIS I will write something. I guess, technically, I have written something. It's just something a not very good and b lamenting about my lack of ability to write.

Excuses. I can find an excuse. It's been a few weeks. I'm tired. It's late. I've got too many things going wrong just now to concentrate. I'm dull and obnoxious. I have the brains of a small South African squirrel-like mammal. I want to die. I still want you to die first, though.

Nothing like the thought of death to concentrate one's life. On the thought of death. Not a terribly useful way of forcing self to concentrate. Maybe the ice pick idea wasn't that bad of one. More attempts.

That's it. No more. I can't take this. Next time start earlier. Andor have caffeine about. Got that?

G'night.