  And, pouf! everything's fixed. I think it's might be a matter of hanging on through the nasty bits, but screaming, yelling and generally flipping out does happen to pass the time. The miracle this time around was that we have recieved checks from Student Loan, for dear kurt's edamacation, and we're back on the positive side of the bank balance. For now. *insert spooky music and a bank teller laughing her orange lips off. * And now for something completely different. Well, no, not as such. When I can't write for some odd brain block or another, I write about how hard it is to write. This little excerpt was for a creative writing portfolio from arandom year at uni; can't remember when, but I thought it was sort of funny. Just think, perhaps, someday, I'll post something I wrote that is less than two years old. All I want to write are love stories. I�m blocked, suffering from a verbal constipation that possibly only God and his Host can lift from my mind and fingers. I�ve been trying to think for months of something to write, something meaningful, pithy, humorous. Imbued in its hallowed characters, a noble Truth that I benevolently bestow on my Dear Avid Reader.
But the thing is, all I want is for Buffy and Angel to stay together, for Romeo to have a little more gosh-durned patience, and for my sister to stop dating Goths, and get herself a guy who will treat her right, and not want to suck her blood. I�ve been listening to sad songs, I�m drawn perversely to teenage melodrama, I�ve considered contacting old boyfriends, just to chat.
I�m not in love right now. Sometimes (but only sometimes) I wonder if I ever was. Maybe I want to write about love, because, well, because I�d make for damn sure they�d end happily, with the Little Mermaid doing the dishes, Romeo picking the kids up after school, and Petrarch and Laura renting a video together on a Saturday night, all pictures of domestic bliss. Domestic bliss. Is that a lie? False advertising? A myth? Fairytales? Is it even a goal, worthy of one�s ardent pursuit?
(armed with charm and wit and sex appeal) What is it, I wonder, that twists my mind, and others as well, to find this Person, this shining paragon of similar interests, amicable behavior, interesting and diverting conversation, among other attributes. Scads of literature, art and music are devoted to the timeless themes of Boy-Meets-Girl, Boy-Loses-Girl. Variations are rampant. The boy can meet the girl, boy can meet another girl, gets distracted, ended up losing the first girl, who was, really, in fact, his true love, but this first girl find her true love in Mary, the Girl Down the Street. Boy finally finds Mary and Girl A in a sordid mess of sheets and sweat, and in a jealous rage, joins a nudist colony, and writes somber country songs for the remainder of his existence.
Or something like that. Doesn�t help me, I�m still blocked worse than a toilet in an all-boys residence during frosh week, full of shit, and vomit. If I had another set of eyes, I�d roll them at myself. It seems to me as though the entire Universe, including my poor, tired, mediocre brain is absolutely insisting that I write nothing but spurious crap till the final trump. I�ll be sitting next to the singing William fucking Shatner in limbo. And, that guy who wrote the song �I�m Gonna Write You the Ultimate Love Song,� No, wait. I�m pretty sure both those guys will be burning in the lake of fire for their atrocities. I�ll be next to Michael Bolton, and the writer of The Celestine Prophecy. No, they�ll be going to hell, too. I guess it�ll be me and the scores of writers who suck, but have fallen short of infernal reward. 
