Eating massive amounts of food doesn't help with writer's block

Although you think it would (as I stuff another cookie into my mouth).

I've sat in front of my computer every single day this week unable to write anything here. The cursor blinks steadily and the screen remains a blank canvas. 

I keep telling myself I can't write because I have too much going on right now and my concentration levels are at an all time low, but is that really the reason?

My office was once my sanctuary. A bright place where I'd go and delight in the fact that I could just close the door and the cacophony of every day life could be shut out, even for a few moments. 

My Shawshank Redemption.

I had my routine: enter office, Prince and Tank followed, they'd argue about who would sit at my feet (Tank always won), turn computer on, work, put feet on Tank, tell Prince it was okay while he inched closer and closer to my feet, even though I know Tank was telling him to move back a little bit. 

We made a great team. Sometimes, there was a little too much dog slobber than I'd like, but nothing too bad.

Now I look at my office and it looks like a cave. Not a cool and mysterious Bat Cave, but a dark and lonely cave that just sucks the life out of anyone or anything that goes into it, a vortex into madness that you can't escape.

Since Tank passed away a few months ago, I have not been able to sit in my office for very long. Prince follows me in cautiously and lays down where he used to when Tank was around, but then he gets weirded out and runs into the living room where there is life. 

I sit in front of my computer, staring listlessly at the screen. I have shit to do, but can't seem to get it done. I keep thinking I feel Tank brush up against my leg. His cold, wet nose touches my toes. His snoring vibrates in my ear. I look under my desk, but there's nothing there.

I can feel the tears drip down my chin. I look out to the living room and Prince is staring at me, like 'Get out of their, Mama. It's too sad in there.'

So I leave and close the door behind me, leaving memories of Tank to expand and swirl on their own, but what I should probably do is just leave the door open so those memories can breathe.

Anyway, using Carl's computer in the kitchen is working just fine for me. 


This is when lying is justifiable

Everyone's asleep, including the dog and he never sleeps when he knows someone in the house is awake because what if he misses all the fun? Fun meaning sitting on the sofa watching shitty T.V.

But not me. No, ma'am.

I told the kids that I was going to sleep at the same time they were because they want to know that I, too, am going to get at least eight hours of sleep and wake refreshed and in a great mood. 

I'm a great parent.

But I lied. I was trying to get them into bed so I could go back downstairs into the kitchen and stuff my face with the cookies I told them they could only eat one of.

I've had three so far and I'm about to reach for my fourth cookie. 

It's just one of the perks of being an adult. Add to that list: migraines, bills, bills, bills, back aches, bills, muffin tops, bills.

Fuck yeah I deserved these cookies. And more.

Wake of Destruction - that's me

I like hair - pretty, pretty, pretty hair. It doesn't matter if you're female, male, dog, lion. If you have nice hair, I need to touch it. When I see beautiful locks, I want to nuzzle my face to it and whisper I need youI love you.

Did I just say that out loud?

What are you writing about, weirdo? Carl asks nicely.

Nothing, jealous. I snap.

Hey! I choose to shave my head. CHOOSE, he says. Exclamation points riddle his sentence.

Anyway, back to hair, glorious hair.

So at the store, I saw a guy with Robert Plant hair, like 1969 Robert Plant hair. So curly and long and shiny. It was like a beacon calling out to me: come to me, touch me, caress me. 

I was so taken with this guy's hair and wasn't looking where I was going. Instead of being stalker light and chatting it up with this guy about his hair, I ran smack into a display shelf of goddamn orchids. Orchids! Many pots fell to the ground: thump, thump, thump. Fragrant blooms surrounded my feet - they didn't want to let me go.

I was suspended in slow motion and found myself in a quandary: do I stay and pick up this mess OR do I run? No one was around. I could make it, right? But then I thought about where I parked - all the way in the friggin' back of the parking lot. Idiot. There was no way my weak lungs and little legs could take me that far quickly. 

So I stayed. And Robert Plant hair guy walked away. Forever.

Goddamn orchids. They're gonna get you every time.

Procrastination is slowly choking the life out of me.

I've been sitting in front of the computer now for fifteen minutes. My list of things to do runs about two pages long. This does not included my scattered to-do list on my phone, which most of the time, is written between my grocery list, my book list (which keeps growing, but I never get to) and my shit list (this, too, keeps growing).

I should prioritize my list, but how do I prioritize put Halloween decorations away over clean office for the third time this week? And there are probably a few things I can cross off my list like peruse Mouth for presents. Because mainly, I would be looking for things for myself. Another one to cross off my list: clean the bathroom. It's just not going to get done. Also, laundry, put clothes away, clean fridge, wash floor, anything that has to with cleaning is a big no. 

Okay, so my list is shorter and I can finally get to work. But wait! This Sharpie pen I use to write with is totally not working. I better check all my pens. This one sucks, bad, bad, good, toss, good, how did this get in there, bad, good, who put this piece of gum in here?

And now a whole flood of spam has arrived in my inbox: my sex life would be better if I got a penis enlargement, I just won the UK lottery, someone in Africa had just discovered that I'm in their father's will, the printer cartridges I'm currently using aren't good, I can try Cialis, do I want a home for $500?, I can keep my computer safe just by downloading this piece of software . . .

The toddler wants to watch Frozen again. Seriously? How can you watch this movie over and over again? Your basic retention of information is not great. 

My phone rings. It's the wrong number. It rings again. Same person. We hang up. It rings again. Same person. This happens two more times. At least this wasted five minutes.

Oh look at the time - it's lunch. Opening and closing the refrigerator door is an exercise in futility. It's the same stuff in there each time the door opens, ding-a-ling.

Guess there's nothing left to do now, but take a nap.


What have I gotten myself into and where is the escape hatch on this thing?

So a few months ago, I started this little company called The Naked Villain Society. It's an outlet for my creative, constructive, imaginative self. A place where I can escape from one life and immerse myself into another full of oils, butters, essential oils and highly caustic sodium hydroxide. Wheeee!

I didn't think it was going to be easy. Shit. I don't know that I really thought it all the way through because that's how entrepreneurs do it. No, no they really, really don't.

For the first few months, I was just happy creating, building a website and thinking about labels and pointing out to Carl that hey - I should really have some new furniture because this old stuff is not gonna hack it anymore and where in the world am I going to put all my supplies? Of course this fell on deaf ears. 

You're outta my will, Kennedy. I know you really wanted my Domo collection.

And then there was a few months of nothing. Build it and they will come? Bullshit. So I twiddled my thumbs and endured many viewings of Frozen with the toddler. 

Now though, this project of mine has consumed all my time. My days for the past few weeks have been filled with anxiety, excitement, dread, exhaustion, over-eating, tears and migraines. Did I already mention over-eating?

So that's what I've been up to instead of writing here. In case you were wondering. Were you wondering? Or did you just figure some sinkhole opened up and swallowed me whole? Actually, that would make for a good comeback story, wouldn't it?

What do you call it when something is lower than rock bottom?

Ummmmmm. . . I also forgot to mention that I watched The Expendables 3 this weekend. And I wasn't forced to watch the dumb thing. It was like a poison coursing its way through my veins so very, very slowly. Obviously, I survived, but just barely. Just barely.

Also, when did Wesley Snipes get out of jail?

Bravo, Stallone - yet another two hours of my life I will never be able to get back. It's ranked right up there with Seven Years in Tibet or what I like to affectionately call: The Lost Weekend.

As you get older, weekends get way more fun

I don't know how your weekend was, but mine was AWESOME.

It started on Friday with a shitty stomach ache because I forgot to bring my gluten-free soy sauce and used regular soy sauce and that's just a shit storm no one should really go through. And yes, I have travel packs of gluten-free soy sauce. 

Don't worry, I'm rolling my eyes, too.

On Saturday I had a panic attack and a migraine brought on by who knows what. I knew something was wrong when I was crying at Target commercial while huddled tightly under a blanket on the sofa. 

This is how I party these days.

Yesterday I watched too many neighbors put up their holiday decorations. I'm all for celebrating the holidays, but sometimes, I feel like I live in the middle of Disneyland here and there are too many blinking lights that set me off.

One neighbor has an inflatable Santa on a sled with on top of his house. The inflatable is larger than his car. It's like a large beacon saying - Look what was on sale after Christmas at Walmart last year. 

Another neighbor replaced all his outdoor light-bulbs with red and green light bulbs. Yay holiday spirit.

I watched like a crazy old lady from the comfort of my home, peering through the blinds. I'm not spying on my neighbors. I'm observing humanity. Call it a sociological experiment. Whatever.

And then Carl said the unthinkable - when do you want to start decorating?

For what? I exclaimed.

For Christmas, fool. He stared at me. I know he wonders if I was born on a different planet.

Where are you going?

To get the Christmas decorations. He said, stomping upstairs.

Over my dead body, I declared.


Wake me up when this nightmare is over.

This is what the music industry is missing and they're totally sad about it. Like Adele sad.

My friend Sean and I have daily conversations about, well, a potpourri of things you should be glad I don't write about all the time on here because it will leave you scratching your head and wonder if we are two happy humans under the age of 50 or two 80-year-old curmudgeons  that spread darkness everywhere we go. 

Yesterday we were discussing music. Is Tom Petty really a rock star? I don't know since I don't listen to his music, but I college roommate did and I feel like I've had enough Tom Petty for a lifetime. 

What about Taylor Swift: yay or nay? Again, someone I don't listen to, but I have to give it to young Swift - she's been able to make some coin off of writing catchy songs about her relationships. 

In my teens and twenties (fuck, just throw in my entire life here), I didn't have the capability of being eloquent and mindful about my relationships. Instead, I was like a pinball spinning wildly from side to side, reaching for anyone that was within reach of my gravitational pull.

And be careful if you broke up with me because the song I'd write about you would be so heartbreakingly bad:

Fuck you. You're an asshole.

Did you think you could really just brush me off like that?

I should've stepped on you with my shoe a long time ago, you troll.

You treated me like a doormat

And now I drag my sword behind me on a warpath.

But I'm confused and lonely. Everything inside me is pitch black.

I just wanted someone to hold hands with - won't you take me back?

This is the time of year where my brain just wilts and it resembles butter

I'm currently hiding in my office right now. If there was a closet in the office, you bet your sweet ass I would be sitting in there, hugging the corner as much as I possibly could.

A neighbor down the street is blasting Christmas music. Said neighbor has also had holiday decorations up since the day after Halloween. This is the type of person we're dealing with. 

A younger version of me would TP their house. But I'm much too lazy and toilet paper is a hot commodity in this house. Also, the neighbor has security cameras everywhere and I'm not Flash Gordon, so. . . 

I can't escape from these bells, jingles and songs about Santa and snow. I tried to hide in the garage, but it's too hot in there. My hair also rebelled and frizzed up and why do I even bother straightening my hair? I could've just used that energy to make a nice, big sandwich. 

Regrets. I've had a few.

I'm contemplating whether or not I should go down and confront said neighbor, but I know that would be a fool's errand. I'm not very social and it would end up being a yelling match and then, maybe, a thumb fight to see who gets their way. It's just too much drama for me right now. 

Besides, I'm enjoying eating these chips. It's got this umami flavor I've never experienced before. Actually, I don't recall ever buying this brand of chips before. Why are they in my office? I ask the kids.

10-year-old: Oh. I thought I tossed those. They tasted funny. Did you buy more?

Me: No.

10-year-old: Well, they were from the summer.

Great. Goddamn Bing Crosby and chips are gonna kill me today.