Given the free time I have now to curl up on the couch and write on these chilly winter days, one would think I’d be in a joyous prolific state. It’s just not so. I have been writing more regularly, only to have several drafts of pieces that are so incoherent and contradictory I’m afraid to post them on this blog that no one reads. I don’t know how to reconcile the inconsistencies in the pieces, and I don’t have anything else to write about. I don’t know what to do.

Ok, maybe I have a few ideas. Like Snoop Dogg’s Fatherhood probably shouldn’t be on in the background while I’m trying to write. And maybe I shouldn’t try to rush and finish something before the Daily Show starts. And maybe I need to get out of my house more (despite the weather) to find something to write about.

But what I’m actually afraid of is that I have nothing to write about because I’m too happy right now, too content. I’m having a hard time channeling my inner bitch, who is in fact the better writer, the one with something to say. My sated loving self writes corny poems that fail at being well-written or poignant. But the cunt in me sure knows how to write shit. Quite the catch-22 I’m in.

I’m happier lately because I’m working from home, which means starting the workday in pajamas, working out more, eating well, and having time to write. It is precisely these conditions that are making it so fucking hard for me to have anything to say. It wouldn’t exactly be riveting material to write about the joys of working from home, or why working out everyday feels good. That’s the type of shit that makes me want to puke, or at least the old me who spent time in cubicles reading pukey stuff to avoid doing actual work.

My only hope is that my husband starts to annoy the shit out of me, and then I’ll have tons of material to work with. Until then, I’ll have to settle for pieces on puppies that don’t make sense, or just give up and watch Snoop. Fashizzle.