Uninspired is an understatement. I've lived on writer's block for so long they've started sending my mail there.
Oh well, sometimes a turd is just a turd. Lately the mashed potatoes don't mean anything.
The zyban isn't kicking in and all the bills are paid. Thirteen hour nights at work seem to pass like anvils through the anus. I have a lover who is as comfortable as heaven .
The fridge is full and the heat is on.
The window open and the breeze just right. A full pack of cigarettes and a cold diet soda.
But my head is a dull buzz. Lately I've been anti-art film. I've caught myself leaving the dial on pop radio stations. I've actually desired a shopping spree at wal-mart.
And let's not even begin to discuss a steadily growing addiction to cable.
But, before I suck on a shotgun, before I unfold a flag of white surrender, before I shackle my ankles with the American Dream...
I shall dig deep inside and try to find something- some self-redeeming seed of cool, the tiniest flame of bizarre, the slightist creative heartbeat.
But fuck it, I think oprah's on....