I’ve had brutal writer’s *block the last few days. *Got real high and replied to missed encounter ads on craigslist, and ate Wendy’s Frosties. I feel like it’s important never to force anything. Writing uninspired spawns uninspired words, go figure. Confounding, I know. There are very few cures for writer’s block, but I’ve found a few remedies.
1. Have passionate hate sex with a Ukrainian. Their ice-cold Eastern European demeanor makes them especially easy to hate in the bedroom.
2. Go read YouTube comments on a Lil’ Wayne video. Those retards could give the worst writers confidence.
3. Cry uncontrollably inside of the recycling bin. This is more of a me thing, but it may apply.
4. Watch Batman Returns, and laugh about how ridiculous his suit looks. Seriously, look at that thing real close. Bat ears are hilarious.
5. Put on a One Man Civil War musical. This is about as cathartic as it gets. It gets pretty itchy from the wool, though
6. Catalog some birds. Those majestic beasts get the brain firing on all cylinders.
7. Write something stupid for Thought Catalog about writer’s block.
8. Two words: Na-Chos.
9. Play GTA on Xbox, but obey the law.
10. Quit writing and join an Indie Folk Band called Goat Jackson and The Rock Flock.
Sometimes, that stuff doesn’t even work. That’s when I move on to hallucinogenic plants, and laser light shows. Actually, that’s just being a hippy, but it somehow applies. I try to imagine what Twain or Steinbeck would do, but then I remember that they’ve written classics, and my best work is arguably a bathroom stall in a Valero station off I-10. I don’t see how some people can just go post up at a coffee shop, and write for hours. I would just end up writing about my disdain for people, and try to guess what percentage of their clothes is made of hemp or kale, or whatever. I can’t have any distractions when I write, unless those distractions happen to be boobs or various gummy candies. Even then, I’m not getting any writing done.
I’ve thought about trying out one of those speech-to-text programs, but I know I’d just waste time trying to get it to say the most unspeakable things ever like “dick denim,” and then laugh about it. I’m a pillar of class and maturity. What if I was just tricking everyone and my book was a political thriller or the next popular wolf lit series? I know, not possible. Shut up. Well, I have some shrooms to harvest. Good luck, you’ll need it.