I don’t know what to write anymore.

I used to write all the time. Long things, short things, silly things, slimy things. Now I write no things. I have my weekly requirement of writing two obnoxious sentences to go along with a picture of baked goods, but that takes no thought. In fact, the more thought that I put into my baking blurbs, the less successful they tend to be.

If you’ll allow me this indulgence, I’m going to turn my back on everything that my English professors ever tought me, and I’m going to be a little too straightforward.

THIS IS MY HYPOTHESIS: My lack of interest in writing is caused by changes in my life that are manifold: general happiness; lack of attention to reading materials and music; and availability of briefer, trashier communication.

THESE ARE MY SUPPORTING POINTS IN REGARDS TO MY FIRST SUBCATEGORY: I would say that I have seen a great increase in my quality of life over the past few years. I started seeing a swell lady; we moved in together and soon she will be my Bride of Frankenstein. I’ve started nourishing my body with this thing called “food,” and it’s opened up my eyes to a “Whole New World” (Aladdin) as well as an “Under the Sea” (The Littlest Mermaid). It was certainly easier when I was socially isolated all day, starving myself. I churned out pages of writing. Metric tons of literary gold just waiting to be rejected by third-rate college literary journals (which are printed on toilet tissue due to budgetary constraints). Now I am happy and rotund, a right jolly old elf. What the hell is there to write about? Beefsteak?

THIS IS A QUICK DEVIATION WHICH IS SOMEWHAT RELATED TO THE PREVIOUS PARAGRAPH: I would imagine that the bride of Frankenstein was a fairly normal young lady. She was probably a bit neglected while her husband spent all of that time in his secret laboratory, but she was a loving and kind woman. Eventually she would bear the Unloved Children of Frankenstein, and take up a hobby of emptying and collecting wine boxes. On the flipside, the bride of Frankenstein’s creature probably had very large hair with lightning bolts.

MY SECOND SUBCATEGORY IS SUPPORTED THUSLY: I can attribute this empty void in my head to the empty void in my ears and eyes. That is to say, I do not read books or actively listen to music anymore. When I did these things, I had the greatest literary device of all on my side: minor plagiarism. Sure, it’s wrong to copy paragraphs wholesale from literary masterworks, such as the Bible or “Cash” by Johnny Cash, but if you find a line or a word that you think is great, it’s really easy to circumvent copyright law with a few extra words or some mild paraphrasing. I can’t remember how many stories I have written that started with the sentence, “It was the best of times; it was the unbest of times,” but I’d reckon it was at least thirty.

CAPITAL LETTERS INDICATING THE OBTUSE NATURE WITH WHICH I INTRODUCE THIS THIRD AND FINAL SUPPORTING IDEA: Technology has done away with the space reserved for effective communication. Twitter has kept me from developing any ideas beyond 140 charac

IN CONCLUSION: There are many comparisons and contrasts to be made here. Thank you very much for reading.

IN CONCLUSION II: Forgive the clunkiness of my writing, as well as any nonsense. It’s been a while.

4 Responses to “”

  1. I know what you mean. I used to write really good poetry when I was sad.

  2. The obvious solution here is for me to move in with you guys and make you both miserable.

  3. it might just be me, but this cracked me up. i don’t know if it was supposed to be satirical in nature, but that’s what i got from it. ha.

    i say you haven’t lost the touch for writing. but then again what the hell do i know?

  4. I found this HILARIOUS- seriously, maybe this is because I’m largely in the same boat! Don’t stop writing!

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