I’ve been having a worrying case of Writer’s Block this week. Okay. I lie. I’ve never had Writer’s Block in my life. Me? Writer’s Block? Who am I kidding. I write about my family’s embarrassing yawning habit.
What’s actually been going on is Writer’s Block’s evil twin, Snidey Cynicism, has been stalking me.
Like, full on stalking.
Snidey Cynicism is SO much more evil than Writer’s Block. Blocky just likes to wall in the good little brain cells of Inspirationville. Snidey Cynicism murders them in cold, cold, cold, *shudders*, cold blood.
Did I meantion she’s really evil?
A few shots from her deadly brain cell murdering gun and there you are. Alone, friendless and without the will to post a single story on a blog about wearing trousers.
‘You’re writing another story about your dull life?’ says S.C.
‘Ah…yeah,’ say I. ‘I’ve just got to figure out what about. Maybe it could be about my super fun job as Paint Sprayer/Hose Holder. Or maybe I could post some cloud photos. Or…what about a poem about that big lizard I saw today?’
‘A lizard?’ S.C. shrieks. ‘Are you trying to be boring or are you just so completely delusional?’
‘Um….’ I stammer. ‘Well…’
‘I know you think people are finding your little tales amusing, but photos of clouds, poems about lizards? Seriously? You’re so going to be jailed for manslaughter.’
‘Jailed? I don’t understand,’ say I. ‘Because I write about lizards?’
‘No, because you write about squirrels. DUH! Yes, lizards,’ says S.C. ‘Blogging about lizards would put people into a brain coma. You’d be frying their gizzards with acidy boredom.’
‘But I don’t want to fry anyone’s gizzards.’
‘I suggest you quit then.’
‘Don’t write today.’
‘I can’t do-‘
‘Let it slide.’
‘Is better of. Beside, you were only going to write about silly, dumb lizards. Weren’t you?’
I stare at Snidey. Snidey stares back.
‘You’re wrong,’ say I. ‘I’m gonna right about you.’
So I did. And have. Snidey Cycinism has been screaming at me the whole while. I won’t repeat what she’s said. It’s not for polite company. Rather mean spirited that one.
Just in case, on the slight, itty bitty, minuscule chance S.C. was right and you are now in a deathly brain coma, I have included a photo of a cow.
If anyone has a boring life, it must be the cow. I mean, look at her. That face says it all. Her lot in life holds nothing but grass chewing, grass regurgitating and the choice of which clump of grass to chew and regurgitate next.
So count yourself so bless and marvelously alive. You have escaped a grass chewing life.
My poems about lizards are so much better than grass chewing.