I think I'm in shock.
So. Bad night last night.
I was at my Grandmother's, and in a genuinely bad mood. Which hasn't happened in forever. Everyone had gone to sleep by ten, but there were tornadoes on the forecast and I'd had a lot of caffiene, so I stayed up, listening to the rain. And I realized I was in the perfect mood to write a poem. Which hasn't happened in forever. Out came a steno pad and pen.... And nothing happened.
I've never not been able to write a poem before. Even if it was just an assignment I didn't really want to do, I could always just scribble something and have it come out passable. Nothing doing. I couldn't comprehend it; and I still can't. It was raining harder and harder, and I just stayed there waiting. I sat on my bed like that for an hour, because I couldn't think of what else to do. Finally I realized the problem: this last year has been the happiest of my life. My poems always began when I was unhappy, and my prose came from my poems.
In short, this explains why I have nothing good to read on Wednesday. I have blasted my artwork by being cheerful and self-confident. Well, mercy me. Fuck-a-doodle-doo.