Today I don’t feel like writing…correction, I don’t feel like thinking about writing or writing about writing. It seems redundant today for some reason. Tomorrow, though, all bets are off and I’ll probably write the longest most awesomest post about writing. Then again, probably not. Who the hell knows. I digress.

Today is one of those sun-shiny days in mid-winter that makes me certain the whole city is probably having a secret giant fantastic festival somewhere. They have to be, because it is almost 40 degrees out, which feels like the freaking tropics compared to the frigid shit thats been going on, and people need an excuse to wear their flipflop, sorts and hoodie combos. For the record: I am against this personally, but would never want anyone to feel like I was forcing my own beliefs onto others. I just want it to be known, that I happen to feel very strongly, that if it is socially acceptable for adults to have the bottom 1/3 of themselves basically completely unprotected anytime that it is still sub 60 fahrenheit, it should also be equally as socially acceptable for those who own adult, animal inspired, fleece onesies (which are singlehandedly and easily the most practical and underrated garments of winter) to wear them without fear of beratement. Again, I digress.

It would make no sense if the rest of the world was wasting this beautiful afternoon introverted indoors like the cold-intolerant vampires of winter we are. I surprisingly don’t mind. It’s funny though, because if I were at work on a day like today, in an office somewhere just looking out the window (yes I’m making fun of you now, but really just to make myself feel better about being job-less so don’t get all pissed off about it) I would have bitched about it relentlessly. I would have spent my entire afternoon thinking of all the other things I would have done to enjoy the day if I didn’t have to be at work. Now that I am not withering away at a soul-sucking job somewhere pretending to be busy but actually just effing around on the internet (yep, about you again…I can see you…calm down I’m just messing, I probably can’t really see you), I am sitting on my couch in my apartment trying to figure my shit out. Trying to be productive. To produce.

Is “writers block” just an excuse writers use instead of just admitting that they are feeling lazy? I want to know who the person was that decided being “lazy” was deserving of a negative connotation. There are many worse things that one can be, and if you are, in fact, a lazy person, it probably takes very little to content you. You are probably happy in most situations and you probably adapt well because you lack any real opinion or decision-making capability because you’re probably too lazy to give a shit. That’s not so bad. I can think of at least 30, much worse, character flaws in a person off the top of my head at this very moment. I mean, I am obviously just having some sort of creative drought and am not at all lazy (shut up, I can feel you judging me and it is pretty rude of you).

So, the decision before me now is to A: push through the lack of desire and spend the afternoon motivating my creative self to make an appearance, or B: push though the lack of desire and spend the afternoon motivating my creative self to make an appearance. I guess when you decide to give something a go, you give it a go, no excuses (even when the struggle is real). Alright masterpiece…I’m coming for you!

I should probably just go find the secret winter-vampire festival. There is probably beer there. Beer and dancing. Damn, that sounds like fun…probably.