Writer's Block Party

I’ve had brutal writer’s block* the last few days. *Got real high and replied to missed encounter ads on craigslist. I feel like it’s important never to force anything. Writing uninspired spawns uninspired words, go figure. Confounding, I know. There are very few cures for writer’s block, but I’ve found a few remedies.


1. Have passionate hate sex with a Ukrainian. Their ice cold Eastern European demeanor makes them especially easy to hate in the bedroom.
2. Go read YouTube comments on a Lil’ Wayne video. Those retards could give the worst of writers confidence.
3. Cry uncontrollably inside of the recycling bin.
4. Watch Batman Returns, and laugh about how ridiculous his suit looks. Seriously, look at that thing real close.
5. Put on a One Man Civil War musical.


Sometimes, that stuff doesn’t even work. That’s when I move on to hallucinogenic plants, and laser light shows. Actually, that’s just being a hippy, but it somehow applies. I try to imagine what Twain or Steinbeck would do, but then I remember that they’ve written classics, and my best work is arguably a bathroom stall in a Valero station off I-45. I don’t see how some people can just go post up at a coffee shop, and write for hours. I would end up writing about my disdain for hipsters, and try to guess what percentage of their clothes is made of hemp. I can’t have any distractions, unless those distractions happen to be boobs or various gummy candies. Even then, I’m not getting any writing done.


I’ve thought about trying out one of those speech-to-text programs, but I know I’d just waste time trying to get it to type the most unspeakable things ever, and then laugh about it. I’m a pillar of class and maturity. What if I was just tricking everyone and my book was a political thriller or the next popular wolf lit series? I know, not possible. Shut up. Well, I have some shrooms to harvest. Until next time…