It’s Friday the 13th. Nothing remarkable has happened…yet.
I had a few hours to myself this afternoon/evening, while my kick-ass chili was simmering on the stove for dinner, so I started reading blogs. A lot of them.
Now I have writer’s block. Could be because there are so many brilliant writers out there that my mind won’t allow me to focus on my own thoughts. Or maybe I am afraid the eidetic aspect of my brain will take over and I will somehow, subconsciously plagiarise without meaning to. Desiring the literary genius of all those I’ve read today to manifest here, on my blog. Sigh. I must be myself. Everyone else is taken
Whatever. I have writer’s block.
And I don’t want to just spew about nothing. But I want to say something tonight. Crap. The pressure.
The Man just walked outside to smoke. I could certainly rant about how much I really want him to quit. The smell, the yellow fingers…yuck. The fact that I can’t kiss him whenever I want because of the taste. The money wasted. Literally lit on fire. Ugh.
The glass half-full me is thinking, “at least he goes outside, right?” Oh well.
I love him.
If it weren’t raining and 37 degrees outside, I would lie down under the stars and come back with a report of the sheer beauty of the night sky. But being cold and wet ranks up there in my book of pet peeves, right along with shredded coconut and the word “lover”. All give me the shivers.
So this is me, sitting in my dining room, with gray roots desperately in need of color, and writer’s block. On a positive note, I’m thinking about the post I’ll write tomorrow after returning from an event the girls and I are attending hosted by the HUB Network, in honor of “My Little Pony“. Woo-hoo!! Thanks to The Beverly Hills Mom, I’m certain the writer’s block will be gone by 8pm tomorrow night. Stay tuned. There will be pictures. Gray roots and all:-)
Maybe my writer’s block is because it’s Friday the 13th. Hmm.
I’m going to bed before Jason, who I am certain is now a bona fide member of The Walking Dead comes sauntering through my front door, wielding a machete, determined to take me and my writer’s block out.