This cursor is mocking me.

This little vertical line, this teeny blinking cursor, this animated Satan bar is mocking me.

For an hour now, this cursor has been the only item existing in this otherwise blank blog entry box. We call it a form field in the biz, FYI.

Usually after an hour has elapsed, I have a stroke of genius and I manage to eek out a story about cake-loving livestock or I passively complain about my irritating neighbor. Or I pretend that I'm a high school principal or a restaurant ketchup bottle.

Not tonight, though. Oh no no no. Tonight, I'm going to do what all writers eventually do. I'm going to write about writing. Or I guess I'm really writing about not writing. Whatever. This is what writer's block does to you. It makes you a moron.

When the act of writing is good, it's very good. Words pour from fingertips like punch at a frat party. One words is just holding hands with the word behind it and together all of these friendly little words form happy little chains that are genius.

But when the words aren't cooperating, well, writing is on par with childbirth. You know it's necessary and it's going to hurt your genitals, but you have to do it anyway. Unless you get a cesarean, but those are terrible things and you should never yank a story out of your stomach like that. It's just not natural.

I have tons of topics I could spew about. Politics, for instance. Or the aforementioned cesarean. I've got tons of opinions about child birth. Or I could stand atop my dusty, moral soapbox and preach about the plague of celebrity. Or I could preach about religions. There's a topic.

But my smarts kick in. And I realize that this is a public blog. Any single person (or married person, for that matter) could be reading this thing. And the last thing I need to do is jeopardize my employment or a friendship or a family relationship. I'm not careless.

But then according to some I do write some oddly inappropriate stuff. Luckily, though, this is fiction. I can't be faulted for fiction, can I?

I can be faulted for writer's block. What an idiotic affliction. Creativity is an odd beast. Sometimes it's an unstoppable monster running through the woods, tearing down trees and shrieking at the heavens. Other times it's a meek, little quiet sock monkey just sitting at the foot of the bed. Eye balling you in a creepy fashion. And sometimes, creativity is hanging out in that imaginary land where your lost socks go. A mystical place that living humans can't find.

... Well, I'll be damned. I've managed to write something. Thanks for the croonings, Muse, you sick bitch.