.....and now the news, don't touch that dial
i can't think of anything to write. why can't i think of anything to write? it's not hard to do. it's not like someone's asking me to be a poet, or a writer, or even some speaker of things with deeper meanings. i have thousands of random thoughts flowing through my skull,and i'm not even capable of grasping one long enough to stretch it out into string of coherent,sequenced ideas. what the hell is that all about? it's like a confused little dog trying to responding to two different commands. "lay down"..."fetch!"..."LAY DOWN!!"..."fetch the ball Sparky"..."Sparky!, I said lay down"..."dog if you don't fetch that fucking stick..."...the damn dog is doing this army boot camp exercise while it suffers major brain trauma trying to sort out the muffled sounds. i'm that stupid ass mutt. a dog. my dog. Napoleon. i miss Napoleon. suits me to get a anxiety stricken dog. the poor dude freaks out if he sees someone putting on a pair of socks. that or if someone rattles keys. my keys got fucking stolen over spring break. and i still can't get to my Canadian flag. that's right, i own the red maple. i want to live there one day but i don't know how well a warm-climated cajun can adapt to the cold ass tundra that is Canada. there's a sitcom for you, ay. nice goal, ay. it'll be like Perfect Strangers all over again. "don't be ri-dic-oo-lus" am i making any sense? no wonder i'm in this non-creative slump. now that i think about it, its not really a slump. in order to have a slump you must have a ....a.....hump. you know, a hump, like a hill, a uphill climb. yeah a hump. no hump here. i'm not a fucking camal. is that how you spell camal? where's lizz when you need her. she smokes camals doesn't she? i'm sure she has a box she could check as a reference. what was i just thinking? before the cigarettes. before the camal. where the fuck did a camel get into this. why would i think of a camal? what fucking camal? just stop. look around. alright. now...what can i write about?