I Stink.

For the three of you hoping to see a new column yesterday – you know, on account of the fact I announced about a month ago that new columns were on the way – your surprise at not seeing one (or perhaps your lack of surprise) rivals only the level to which I am disgusted with myself for not being able to produce at least 700 words.

Things with that first column were very slow going over the early part of the week, but going nonetheless. Already six hours behind schedule by 4am Wednesday, I’d managed approximately 350 words of passable content; nothing brilliant, but nothing that would lead villagers brandishing torches and pitchforks to descend upon my home. Stuck in that place, I opened a book, looking for some motivation. Not long later I was intellectually exhausted (from what, I have no idea) and devoid of any inspiration or motivation to continue. My mind was the blankest slate I can ever recall while attempting to write.

In various attempts to straighten up and fly right (mister), I drove about aimlessly for awhile, fixed a light breakfast, watched the Three Stooges and even napped briefly, the idea being that as long as the column was late anyway, it didn’t matter whether the remaining four or five paragraphs were written right that minute; late Wednesday night would still be Wednesday.

Upon waking I sat in silence in front of this laptop and stared at the blinking cursor for about 35 minutes before coming to the depressing realization that nothing was coming, and nothing was going to come no longer how much longer I attempted to put roots to this desk chair. Even giving myself a month to get my emotional act together, I still fell apart like any random piece of Democratic legislation.

I hate myself for this failure.