Seriously, I’d rather be tasked with brushing the teeth of a rabid jackal, or teach a Kardashian how to open a book than have to overcome writer’s block.
As any of my ten regular readers can tell you, I haven’t exactly been a fountain of joy lately, spewing my upbeat goodness all over humanity’s collective form. Yes, I realize that imagery may be disturbing to some, but at least it woke you up, right? You’re welcome.
I often find myself walking a fine line as a writer and so I have to answer some vital questions when it comes to my writing voice:
- Do I indulge my naughty side and work blue?
- Can I possibly accurately describe all the madness I deal with as a Niagara Falls bellman without cursing?
- Will my readers think of me as a pervert if I freely admit I watch the occasional (cough) adult film?
- How much of my personal life should I include on my blog?
- How much of my personal life can I include on my blog before my wife beats me like I owe her money?
- Will I ever get past my grief and guilt over the passing of Rockin’ Ronnie?
- Will anyone ever respond to my 5×5 requests ever again? (Because I’ve received dozens of replies form subjects who have said yes, but then return any As to my Qs.)
The truth is, I’ve answered a few of these queries a long time ago. I’ll always shoot from the hip as a writer and that means with the exception of identifying details of the guilty parties, I’ll always describe the situations I encounter as a bellman completely accurately. Yes, I’m an HR director’s wet dream come true, thank you for noticing.
But back to meshugana mental block of mine; I’d love to write… about anything at this point, to be honest. But with the exception of a few Murdoch reviews a month, it’s exhausting to mine my consciousness for material. Don’t get me wrong, I’m going to keep trying to uncork my brain-box. I’m persistent that way, especially when it comes to tasks I’m not quite proficient at; just ask my wife…
Ironically, my body’s been reflecting my mental state of late. It’s been so much fun wrestling with IBS. I’ve always wanted to have a medical condition that’s advertised on late-night television and whose “cures” have more side effects than Trump mouthpiece Sarah Huckabee has evasive answers. However, I’m happy to report that my doctor put me on new meds (never thought I’d be typing that statement) last week and they’re working like a charm. The old stuff made it impossible to leave the house – and the bathroom – for fear of experiencing a disaster of epiclly mess proportions.
But enough of the lovely imagery, I have good news! Turns out that when I had that awesome colonoscopy last July to check for the source of my IBS, the doctor found something that was most unexpected, but fortunately for me, was completely treatable. One quick snip later the doc removed a cancerous polyp from my colon.
Yes, you read that correctly: I had something truly dangerous in my body that, had it been left unchecked, may have killed me, but it has been removed. So it turns out my IBS – and a team of medical practitioners – saved my life.
I fully intend to remain vigilant and keep a close eye on my butt (sounds weird, I know but that is the area I’ll need checked regularly) in order to remain in the land of the living for as long as possible. I’ve been despondent as hell lately but I’ve no intention of dying anytime soon.
Here’s to living, friends, it’s the greatest.
Now that I think about it, who cares about writer’s block? I’m alive, bitches!
See you in the lobby, kids…