“Writing about a writer’s block is better than not writing at all.”
— Charles Bukowski
God bless this man. Seriously. Because, in a way, he’s totally right. Writing about writer’s block is better than sitting here, staring blankly at the screen, wishing for something, anything to fucking come.
And, believe me. It wants to come, except this time around I have no idea why it isn’t.
It could be that I’m genuinely fed up with the rest of my life. I’m over this current living situation and really looking forward to the next phase. It could be that I’m so stressed out at work that I don’t really want to do anything except sleep whenever I’m not at Starbucks. It could be that I’m stuck and I need to work through the block but there is so much trying to flow through the gate that it’s hindering itself. I don’t know.
What I do know is that I need. To. Write. I feel impotent, and worse? I feel like my depression and anxiety are coming back full force because I’m not writing.
Well, that isn’t entirely accurate. I am writing, every day in fact, even if it’s in my journal pictured here. I’ve been trying to write in this book here every day, ever since I got back from/went to Buffalo to go house hunting with Koala. Actually, that wasn’t the purpose of the trip. The actual purpose of the trip was to see her, but we got a house out of the deal so I consider it an all-around victory. Fuck, can I just go off on a tangent here and say that I miss her? Like, a lot? Because I do. I accidentally got a night to cuddle and it was the most awesome night ever. Never mind wings and beer, never mind driving around just talking. Collapsing in bed with her was truly spectacular, and it made me realize that it’s not just human contact, but the right human contact that I’ve been craving (Also, all of that tangent was written by me but, as I wrote it, I could hear Andy Cohen dictating it to me in my head. Fucking strange).
As of this very moment, I am seriously debating just going to bed, setting an alarm, and forcing myself to get up early and go somewhere. Anywhere. Packing my shit and taking off. I mean, sure I just did that — I was back in the B for cryin’ out loud! — but I did a lot of hanging out in my hotel room watching TV and getting nothing accomplished. I guess I don’t really have the option to do that anymore, do I.
Ugh. Okay. Bed. Tomorrow’s another day.