26 April 2013

I don’t think my brain has come back from vacation yet. Sure, we left Vegas 21 days ago, but I haven’t been able to actively engage in much work since then. I have at least 3 different project simmering, and that back burner is starting to look a bit crowded. I’m blog-blocked; face it, the most inspired thing I’ve done all week was to post some funny-to-me GIF images. I don’t think I’ve even posted a real Facebook status update in a week; lots of pictures posted and some check-ins, but a status? Don’t think so.

Right now I’m sitting in Starbucks with Facebook open behind MS Word—because that’s how I work—and even though the couple of manuscripts I’ve tinkered with over the last year or so have good starts, nothing worthwhile is coming to me. I often sit here and hope that things I overhear make something in my brain click, but today is a quiet day at the ‘Bucks. Lots of people, but most of them are here alone and even the people who are obviously here together aren’t really talking. They’re studying or reading or working on laptops with lit-up little apples on the lids.

If you Google Q-tip, this guy pops up

Plus, today’s music kind of sucks. Ok, not kind of. It blows donkey balls. It’s bad enough to make me wish that whatever is wrong with my brain that makes it impossible to hear on a phone was making it impossible to hear the dreck seeping through the speakers. Bad enough that if I had a giant Q-tip, I might stab my brain right through my right ear. Bad enough that I would prefer cringing my way through the Spouse Thingy’s country music.

Folks, when I would prefer country music, you know whatever is playing is truly, deeply, awfully, wickedly horrible.

I may also be a little distracted by the guy at the table next to me; I can see in my peripheral vision that he keeps looking over and staring at me. He’s either enthralled by the fact that the 50+ year old woman next to him really needs to shave, or he’s totally digging on one of my chins.

Or maybe it’s the goosebumps. I should have brought a sweatshirt in with me.

And here we have it. Four hundred words about not having anything to write about. And hell yes, I counted them. Twice. Sort of. Maybe.