Will writing about writer’s block

Will writing about writer’s block finally end it? Anything is worth a try at this point. I’ve been blocked for months now. Mental constipation. I haven’t written an article, essay, review, comic, nada. My blog has even become boring. All I can manage are a few short paragraphs about nothing. You know, like this.

I need a gallon of apple juice for my soul.

I had hoped moving would help, and it still may. I’ve hardly settled in; my place is a wreck (we’re talking furniture in the kitchen), but I’m making progress. There are more changes to come, and each of them holds some hope. I would reassure myself with the unlikelihood that this is forever–but it may be. Sometimes I just. stop. I stopped writing songs several years ago. Part of it was that I knew I was mediocre, and would never be any better, so I decided to concentrate on greater talents. But much of it was the fact that suddenly I didn’t have the angst anymore–some odd flower in me matured, bloomed, and banished the pain that bore my music. It sounds tragic, but frankly, I don’t miss it. I wonder if the writing has gone the same way. Am I done? Do I not need it anymore?

Or is something else beginning?

Maybe it’s simply time to get laid.

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