He was wearing green...

Sometimes, people walk into your life. With chicken noodle soup.

... and you didn't realize they were there, mostly because you hate chicken noodle soup and didn't ask for it.

But there they are, holding this steaming bowl of comfort and friendship because you have a cold that's making you really hard to be around. It's a simple enough gesture, offered without pretense or hope of anything in return. It means they care that you are sick and want your day to be just a little easier. That's all.

They even bring crackers. The good kind. Your favorite kind.

And you can't even bring yourself to say thank you because you're all torn up and angst-ridden over some guy who was never worth your time anyway.

...Well, that, and you hate chicken noodle soup.

So, your ex-boyfriend walks into a bar...

It's not a joke. It's not funny.

Alright, it's a little funny... ironic?

For the last few weeks, I haven't been writing. I've been doing everything but writing. I've been avoiding my blog and neglecting pen and paper. We've been cooling it for awhile so I could spend some time with the new boyfriend. And I've been happy about it. Adam's great. He's all romantic and sweet and fun and nerdy as hell and that is awesome.

...Except for the fact that he gave me writer's block, which I consider worse than an STD.

...And that three days ago, he broke up with me via text message. Ha. Even he's writing while I'm not.

Like I said, a little funny.

I hate reducing myself to "that kind of girl" when I make this reference, but once on Sex and the City, Carrie got broken up with via Post-It. I can't decide which is worse.

So I did what Carrie did. I went out with the girls.

I got dressed up. I drank some iron butterflies. I watched a good band with a cute singer play in my favorite bar. I was out to have a good time, and I very nearly succeeded.

...Until modern technology's Bill Shakespeare walked up behind me and ordered a pint of Guinness.

I walked out of the bar and home. In four inch heels. Without paying my tab.

Damn you, Adam

Blocks from where I'm supposed to be...

It doesn't matter how long it's been.

I realize my absence is unrealized to all except maybe one person, but it doesn't matter...

I haven't been writing. I haven't been doing anything. So it seems pointless to fill cybersapce with the nothing I've been living.

Oh I've had thoughts. Opinions. Ridiculous amounts of questions for the world around me that really can't be answered but probably need to be posed at least... Only thing is, I don't feel like I'm important enough to have them come from me. Or that I care enough to look for the answers...

... That's not it. I just don't feel like I'm clever enough, observant enough to ponder the questions with any sort of intelligence whatsoever.

What we have here, my friends, is a case of writer's block. Only it's worse than normal. This is no absence of inspiration, no abandonment by the ancient muses. I have sat down to write a thousand times and have only a hundred unfinished sentences to show for myself.

This writer's block is impossible to get over.

This block has a name.

Adam.