Have you ever been so involved with a particular project it consumes every moment of your life – including your dreams? And that very same project takes over so much that you don’t have time to shower, or brush your teeth, or change your pajamas, or even enjoy the little things you love, such as: Bacon, and Cheese, and Chocolate, and Vodka, because you’ve spent the past eight weeks, in a row, holed up in a tiny corner of your house working on a novel that’s probably not going to be close to finished until 2014 – if you’re lucky?
And when you suddenly realize ‘ohmyzod has it really been two whole weeks’ since you last wrote a blog post, you totally start to freak out, because in blogville time is very much equivalent to dog-years, which really means it’s been more like a month. And then you begin to feel all kinds of enormous pressure to provide glorious tales with perfectly captioned photos, for your lovely readers, who you miss Sofa King much, except that absolutely nothing amusing, funny, or remotely entertaining, has happened over the past several weeks, because you’ve been holed up in a tiny corner of your house working on a novel that’s probably not going to be close to finished until 2017 – if you keep trying to write blog posts.
Except that you really want to write a decent blog post to make up for your extended absence, but you have no ideas, so you’re left staring at a blank piece of paper, taunting you, which is only the very beginning of a downward spiral that includes but is not limited to: spoon feeding yourself copious amounts of ice cream, stuffing your face with brownies, racking your brain for ideas, and wandering around aimlessly, because you’re fairly positive this post is definitely going to fall short of your own unrealistic expectations and then everyone will know you’re really NOT all that funny.
So you dig as deeply as possible into the recesses of your brain to come up with epic-failure-ideas like how you tripped over your own pajama pants, while walking up the stairs, carrying a bowl of ice cream and a brownie. Or how the last time you shaved your legs there was snow on the ground. Or how driving your son to the gym three times a week is really putting a damper on your schedule.
Or…how your father played a prank on you when he hid an extremely loud clock inside of your bedroom, because he knows just how much the incessant ticktock sound drives you bat.shit.crazy.stone.cold.fuck.nuts. And after searching random places, high and low, you finally find the clock, hiding underneath a seat cushion, and you can’t help but laugh uncontrollably, before throwing it away in the garbage can. The garbage can that’s located all the way out in the garage. And then you think because the clock is far, far, away, and down two flights of stairs, and in the trash, you’ll never have to hear that dreaded noise ever again. But you would be wrong. Because two nights later, as you climb into bed, desperate for sleep, all you will hear is TICK-TOCK TICK-TOCK TICK-TOCK, over, and over, and over, again, but you have no idea where it’s coming from, and holy hell someone please make it stop. Of course that forces you peel back the cozy-comfy blankets and embark upon a Scavenger Hunt at 4am, until you find the source of the noise hiding under one of the unfolded sweaters inside of your closet. And then you realize your father is a mastermind who will continue to find ways to torture you, so maybe you need a new plan to get rid of that god-forsaken clock forever. Only you couldn’t figure out a way to tell that story as quite as well as you’d like to. So you decide NOT to write about it.
And then you get back into bed, and the fetal position, and simply concede to defeat.
But then you think about how all of the other bloggers have been steadily entertaining you, over the past six years, and you really owe them at least one good story, for fucks sakes. So you get back out of bed, eat another brownie, and a bowl of ice cream, and make a pot of coffee, and pound away on the keyboard of your computer in hopes of coming up with an idea.
Then you momentarily consider writing about how much you loathe Dr. Oz. because he may or may nor be The Devil. And you really think you’re onto a great idea for a blog post. That is, until you remember how many people believe he’s the Second Coming, even though most of his medical advice is half-assed, especially when he recommends things like taking licorice root to boost loss of belly fat, when there is no scientific evidence to back that claim, and while he warned that you that you shouldn’t use it if you have high blood pressure, he made no mention of other cautions, such as lowered potassium, arhythmias and certain drug interactions. So even if his credentials include chief of cardiology at Columbia Presbyterian in NYC, that really doesn’t matter, because his show has evolved into a different fad diet each week, and it’s enough already. And speaking of diets and losing weight, after being forced to watch an episode of his show while in the waiting area of your own doctors office, you notice how Dr. Oz is beginning to look a lot like Skeletor because he probably suffers from Manorexia and his pointy little bird face is totally-super-creepy and all you can think is eat a fucking sandwich, man. But you don’t want to offend any of his millions of loyal fans, because if you tried to argue with them, or defend your opinion, that would take up way too much of your precious time, and that might cause you to be holed up in that tiny corner of your house working on your novel until 2020. So, you decide NOT to write about that either. And quite frankly any type of conflict and/or confrontation immediately gives you a severe case of diarrhea.
Then, for a minute, you contemplate writing about why you’re forever banned from watching the Investigation Discovery channel, because after a seventeen-hour marathon, and left home alone, you’re absolutely positive you’re going to be raped and murdered, and die a horrible death, every time you hear the wind howling outside, or the heat clicking off and on. Because unlike, Law & Order, or Dexter, or Breaking Bad, the stories on IDTV are Real Life Crimes yo – and you can’t convince yourself what you just watched was fake. Armed with scissors and a flashlight, your heart races, and your palms begin sweating, but then you realize having sweaty palms, means you won’t be able to grip those scissors properly when trying to fight off an intruder, in fact, they might even end up being used against you, and no one would be able to identify your mutilated remains. And then you wish you could get up and turn on every light in the house, grab a bowl of ice cream, and a brownie, because that might make you feel better. But you can’t, because you’re totally paralyzed with crippling fear, so you manage to reach for your iPhone, and call one of your friends, at 3am, and make them stay awake, and on the phone with you, until the sun comes up. But then everyone who reads this will know for sure that you’re completely crazy, and regress to the age of five when frightened, and refuse to take any of your phone calls. So you decide NOT to write about it.
In a last ditch effort, you think about throwing out useless and meaningless poll questions like:
1. Do you call it a Grocery Store or a Supermarket?
2. Do you use a Cart or a Bugy?
3. Do you buy Soda or Pop?
4. Do you wear Tennis Shoes or Sneakers?
But you recognize that’s just incredibly lame and a waste of everyone’s time. So, you decide NOT to write a blog post about that either.
And then you realize if you keep writing this blog post, you’re probably not going to finish that novel until sometime after 2025. And you should probably walk away from the computer already, because you really need to take a shower, and brush your teeth, and change your pajamas, and grab some Bacon, and Cheese, and Chocolate, and Vodka, because you’ve already had way too much ice cream and brownies, and you still haven’t come up with any thing decent to blog about.
So. Yeah.
Has THAT ever happened to you?
No?
Me either.
