It has been 11 days (or 15,840 minutes in Rent speak) since I have taken time out of my busy and fulfilling life of perpetual unemployment, to write another insignificant posting about my own personal segregations of the human race. I know this has left many a heart broken, dream shattered, and life hanging in the delicate balance of suicide and recreational self mutilation. And for that I do apologize.
I want to say that there is a specific reason for this behavior, but I must confess there is not. In the past 11 days, I have had a shitstorm of a stomach virus (no pun intended), a busy concert-going weekend, and my usual unapologetic laziness to explain my lack of productivity and the general disappointment I bring to my family.
But do you want to know the truth? Even as I sit here typing away at an impressive speed, eloquent streams of prose that will no doubt force all of you to change your soiled delicates at least once during the arousing and hilarious experience of reading this, I do not want to write. My uterus is hemorrhaging, I have spiders and other creatures setting up camp all over my pad (yes, pad – you can suck it if you don’t like my lingo), Bob Dylan is touring in my area a month after I am moving, and the blades on my Ped Egg are really quite dull. Aside from my health, great family, and excellent well-being, there aren’t many things to be happy about.
I need some inspiration or a heavy dose of opium to get out of this funk. I want to run in place for ten minutes in sweaty slow motion and pour Gatorade all over myself, getting energized to write a blog so perfect my three readers will wet dream over it.
I will do this. I will write a blog entry, I will kill a spider, I will use steel wool on my heel if need to be. I was told many moons ago, that idle hands are the ones we touch ourselves with. I will beat this.
The girl with idle hands