VI

I think I’m experiencing the worst case of writer’s block I have so far in my humble ten-year tenure in the office of Writer.

Impressive sigh.

No, but seriously who decides these things? Who conveys the crown!? It’s a legitimate question.

It’s kind of pretentious if you think about it. Kind of gives off a whole …. And who the fuck do you think you are?

Anyway, except for a handful of poems, I haven’t been able to write anything in months. Like … months. Though it isn’t for lack of trying! It’s just … whatever it is that tends to those things is away from its desk at the moment.

But in an effort to keep busy until it gets back (what a terrible thing to return and find me lounging around), what I have been doing is editing old stuff, which is why I say that the writer’s block this time around is being a real bitch; because not only is it preventing me from producing anything, it’s also shitting on what I already have produced.

I mean, imagine my surprise when I went through a stack of what I considered to be—and excuse me, apparently, for being so wrong—some pretty decent material, but imagine my surprise when I went through them just … just … blastin’ holes in the motherfuckers, just—bam! bam! bam!
I mean I tore through there worse than Jesus in the temple, flipping tables and all—How dare you bring that bullshit in here!!!
I GOUGED HOLES BIGGER THAN THE HOLES SHE LEFT IN MY HEA—

***

So, I mean, obviously, I had to abandon course. No more editing. I mean … I can’t just allow …. you know, this is my stuff. Regardless of what it is or isn’t … you know. I mean—that’s a little extreme. Even by my standards.

So.

I can’t write. I can’t edit.

Now what?