A Cold War with Writing

Today is one of those days where I am engaged in a Cold War with the entire concept of Writing. Both sides are building up their artillery. My weapons of choice are Twitter, cleaning, and googling neti pot cleaning. On the other front, Writing is using guilt as its standard, yet highly lethal form of ammunition. Because I have finally put words on a page, you could say that Writing is in a good position to win this war, but I don't know, the day is not over yet.

The responsibility of writing when you have nothing to write about really does feel like this sometimes -- like two enemies at a total standstill. Only, it's not as dramatic as warring nations. It's more like two middle school BFFs in a silent argument over godknowswhat. I mean, Writing and I are usually friends. We talk late into the night about ridiculous things, we defend each other, we joke about getting glamour shots together. It's a real, genuine bond. So I don't know what I said, or did, or thought (obviously, Writing can read my thoughts), but all of a sudden, Writing just doesn't show up when I need her to. See, this metaphor isn't even particularly clever. What the hell, Writing?

And no joke, between writing that paragraph and starting this one, I got up to get some water, sat down determined to write something of value, and my chair broke in the most painful way possible.

So seriously, screw writing. It's been a real pain in the ass (literally). I'm going to go read instead. And then go to the gym forever.