Blocked

from the Whiskey River Soap Company.

I read, somewhere, in the vague reaches of the internet’s reachage, that writer’s block happens because there’s serious doubt going on. Or some sort of self-ingrained idea that no matter what you write or create, it’s CRAP ON TOAST. So why bother at all?

Bingo. That one wormed inside, took up residence, made itself a cup of tea on the inner barely working stove. Where only two of the four burners work, and one of those working burners keeps trying to quit, too.

Obviously, I’m wallowing in those Don’t Wanna Write Nuthin’ waters.

There’s no joy left in creating anything word-wise. Even my silly, ain’t gonna show this to no one, crapwriting won’t flow like a sad little river these days. I’ve started the same file over about five times now.

Then go–I’ve written this EXACT FREAKING THING ALREADY, GO FALL ON A RATTLESNAKE, YOU TALENTLESS WEASEL. How dare you try to write at all, you BLEEP BLEEP BLEEP!

Bleep.

Same goes for a play I started. Started it several times over. Want to scrap whatever I wrote, start over. It’s a compulsion at this point. Start over. Start over. START OVER. Write about fifteen pages, get that notion that even a dead syphilitic rat would not piss on this! Then I go read headlines about the state of the world.

That’s where I am, writing-wise. Defeated at the thought that not even a dead rat would bother wetting itself [I know, how can a dead rat pee on anything? I know. Just humor me a bit here.] on pages I’ve managed to form from the deep voids.

It has not snowed yet. It’s cold, it’s supposed to snow tomorrow. But today, no snow. None. Snow perks me up.

Maybe I’ll write the Bestest Thing Ever!!

when or if it snows tomorrow.

Maybe the dead rats will pee on it with glad singing in their dead hearts.

Maybe? Maybe. Maybe!!

And those little voices in my head whispering no no no nope no no way nope nope nope.

Little fuckers. They never shut up these days…!

from Showpo. Yep. Yep yep.