(Photo credit: mmconnors@morgue photo)

Dear Writer’s Block,

This little thing we’ve got going between us, it needs to stop.

I could say it’s been fun, these too-many days spent wracking my brain for words that when typed are the literary equivalent of lukewarm gruel, but then I’d be lying. Truth be told, I’ve had more fun getting my wisdom teeth pulled. At least then there was lots of sympathetic head patting involved. And pudding.

Yes indeedy, I haven’t had this much fun since the frat party in college where I decided to flavor my dixie cup of keg beer with a handful of skittles. Skittlebräu, I called it. “Mistake” would’ve been a more accurate descriptor. I can taste the rainbow! I thought while taking great, greedy gulps of the saccharine liquid that made sweaters on my teeth. When it came back up—chunky and candy-colored—it tasted less like rainbows and more like hot vomit. It was a regrettable experience … especially for the dude standing adjacent, my unfortunate regurgitation having painted a stinking, Jackson Pollock-esque scene on his tidy, black Pumas. Yes, that was the best, and by “the best” I mean the worst. The worst until Writer’s Block swooped in and stole my mojo, that is.

I mean really, I just can’t take much more. This creative block is torture. I’ve got cobwebs in my head where a brain used to be! Cobwebs! What’s more, my appearance has really started to suffer. Where I used to get Sandra Bullock, America Ferrera, or the boy muppet from The Dark Crystal, lately I’ve been told I bear striking resemblance to Sigourney Weaver in Alien or Sinead O’Connor circa 1992. Bald chicks.

In deed, my friends have gotten very concerned about my recent hair loss. The other day Paul, eyeballing a shiny patch of scalp, asked if I was OK. “Everything’s fine,” I told him, “it’s just I have this weird psychological condition which makes me want to pull all my hair out.” “Ahh,” he nodded. “Trichotillomania?” “No. Worse,” I breathed, “writer’s block.” Jesus Christ! Paul blurted as he  clutched his hands to his chest and scurried away,  the look on his facing saying  “I hope its not catching.”

And I’m wondering Writer’s Block, what’s next? Are you going to steal my boyfriend, take my lunch money, wedge my feet into cement shoes and deep six me somewhere over the Atlantic? Are you going to outlaw organics, advocate infanticide, drown kittens, abort babies, and betray the Jedi? Are you gonna sprinkle when you tinkle and then leave it for me to clean up? Are you going to melt the polar ice caps and increase the price of gas by $5 a gallon? Are you gonna interrupt Taylor Swift because Beyonce had one of the best videos of all time? I don’t really know where I’m going with this, except to say that Writer’s Block, you are a gigantic pain in my @$$! Please to dislodge yourself before I lose it completely…. Of course, the fact I’m having this conversation with a concept and not a person (or cat even), means I’m probably already there. Crap.

Writer’s Block, I can’t quit you. And that would be OK if you were Heath Ledger and I your gay cowboy lover, but let’s face it: you are not Heath and the only guns I’ve got are made of muscles. If you’re going to be something I can’t quit, I’d at least like you to start wearing a ten-gallon hat. And chaps … preferably assless. And also, you should bring me some Rogaine. And pudding.

I won’t miss you when you’re gone.

*kisses* H