I got nothing.

I’ve ran my hands up and down my face, pulled at the bangs of my hair before finally gripping at my follicles in frustration. I’ve rubbed at my closed eyes, and let out enough exasperated sighs to fill up a bike tire.

But, I’m trying.

It’s like showing up at the gym even though you don’t want to be there. You hope that if you just start, maybe 15 minutes in you’ll get inspired.

I need to go the gym now that I think about it.

The blank, white, Word document is intimidating. The cursor anxiously flashing in anticipation of its next movement, it knows nothing else. My technological puppet; it can’t move if I don’t make it.

I’m desperate, and I just want Mr. paperclip to show up and help me finish this entry. Help.

Fuck.

Music isn’t helping.

Louis Armstrong or Fugazi is what I normally have on when I’m writing, it fades nicely into the background and is soothing enough to propel creativity, while at the same time easy to ignore. It’s annoying right now though.

No music.

Off.

Too quiet. Fuck.

I have nothing. I don’t even have an inkling of an idea. It’s a big ‘no-no’ to admit something like that in a writing, but I’m past caring.

I need to work out this muscle. It’s been too long. My mind is going to burst if I don’t write 500 words using some heavily sexual metaphor to describe something.

I need coffee and then I’ll write. Coffee and a muffin. I’ll write a page and then reward myself with a muffin.
Banana Nut.

A reader deserves better. You deserve more, however, all that’s on my mind lately is negative and I don’t feel like being negative.

• I don’t want to bitch about religion.
• I don’t want to bitch about politics.
• Fuck! I don’t even know where I was going with these bullet-points.

I’m screaming at my computer right now. I will never hit ‘Publish’ on this embarrassment of a post. I keep reading this with my hands covered over my face; like how a child would watch a horror movie.

I hate this. I’m better than this. I know better.

Right about this time in a normal blog I would put up a funny picture.

This picture isn’t funny.

Remember the gym analogy? If I show up, within 15 minutes I will hit my stride, right?

Nope.

Nothing.

If writing were a gym, than I worked out for about 3 minutes at the water fountain before….fuck, I can’t even think of a good finish to this metaphor.

I tried.

I’m sorry.