the words…they don’t come

People ask me with regularity why I don’t write a book, or they suggest that I should, or they demand it. Or whatever. The subject comes up. Invariably I answer “because my constitution isn’t strong enough for alcoholism”, trying to conjure images of say Dashiel Hammet pounding away at his trusty Underwood will pounding away at his trusty bottle of rye.
You know what I mean.
and of course it should be noted that this website is not the only example in existence of my writing. So before you think “christ, the only thing this bitch can write about is dogs and her own butt” think again.
No, wait, you might be right. I enjoy writing. Or more specifically, I enjoy words. I love a dry wit and a good turn of phrase, I love wordplay. I love people who not only write well, but creatively and with passion.
but it’s not enough to be able to fingerfuck the english language into a fenzied orgasm. A good turn of phrase, like a pretty smile or a good pair of tits will really only get you so far.
The real reason why I do not want to write a novel is because, quite honestly, I have nothing to write about. Anything I do write would probably be as interesting as one of those Oprah book club emo-fests. You know the ones where ‘stark circumstances’ and ‘inner strength’ become emotional crutches for the wiener set?
Or even worse, I could totally see me writing one of those terrible chick-lit books with the garrish pink cover and the woozily stylized drawing of sunglasses or flip-flops. Yeah, fuck that.
So, what I’m saying is that I recognize in advance the utter lack of meaningful story in my head. I think Norman Mailer recently said that the great american novel is dead, and I think he might be right.
Or at least mine is.

so addicted

I’m so addicted to my bread machine. It’s making dough for whole wheat buns so I can bring my lunch to work and save money and stop eating the crap in the cafeteria. This is the fourth thing I’ve made with it since sunday. I’m a nutball for the bread.
Today’s one of those days. I was completely hyper most of the day, but entirely unfocused. I destroyed an important excel document because of my full on a-tardation. Had to email my boss and ask him for his copy. I’m so dumb.
The other night, after I fell down, i noticed that I had scraped my wrist a bit. Then I noticed the bump. Back in ’95 I developed a ganglion cyst in my wrist right at the point where my median nerve enters the dreaded carpal tunnel (I just like to call it dreaded). My lack of insurance meant I had no real medical options at the time. I had to let it go for almost 2 years before I got insurance (yay for living in one of the wealthiest countries in the world!! I’m lucky it was just a cyst, I’d hate to see what would’ve happened if I truly got sick). In that time it grew and it pressed the nerve against the tendon and caused some damage. To this day I still get tingly fingers and I can’t quite open my thumb all the way.
I had surgery and assumed that day surgery meant super fantastico easy. Jesus, no. I was out of work for a week just dealing with the pain and the pain killers and the sheer exhaustion. then I had my hand in a cast for about a month, during which time I COULD type, but it would make my hand go numb.
Anyway, the lump is back. I’m not thrilled about it. The options, as laid out to me before were to drain it and have it come back frequently, or remove it.
I’ll keep you posted on what the doctor says. I mean, I could use a week off work, but I prefer it be for fun and not involve garbage bags on my arm during showers and trying to wipe my ass with the wrong hand (try it sometime, it’s not as easy as you think).