I’m sucking down a juice and staring at my screen.
When they say, “You’ve got writer’s block, maybe this is what they mean.”
I’ve skimmed the New York Times and torn through the Huffington Post,
looking for a subject, a story, or an a**hole I can roast.
But, there’s nothing. My brain is vanquished. And the page, it’s almost a blank…
Until I think about rhyming couplets and for that I have David Rakoff to thank.
For now, I’m having fun and this writing has become a game.
And Lawd knows it better be, ‘cause only a dunce would do it for the fame.
Sorry about that there, I channeled the sassy side of me for an instant.
Don’t worry, she likes donuts like a Winchell’s ho bag and she’s insulin resistant.
There’s a part of me that worries that this poem or story or post might be lame.
But, feck it. It’s my blog and if you don’t try – the makin’ nothing – that’s the real shame.
So, here I am – one vessel of teeming humanity trying to carve out my little piece of insanity.
Does it work? Well, it depends on what you like?
But, I will say if creativity is a machine, it keeps this old dyke on her bike.
(Yes, I said that. Yes I did! You don’t like it, talk to the SQUID.)
One day at a time, one joke at a go,
where it will lead is not for me to know.
The only person who knows is one of those late night, psychic, superstars,
and thankfully, my calling cards keeps her stocked in expensive cat food jars.
It’s the “just do it” like a Nike slogan for a nerd.
I will hone my voice, I will write it down, I will find a way to get heard.
The dog sleeps and I peck at the keys hoping to find the steady road.
That’s what we all do here and regretfully there is no “auto pilot” mode.
The athlete trains. The singer sings and the writer writes.
Funny how what we love can seem like enduring a million fights.
I suppose this is a post about writing and tricking your never cooperating brain,
into finding that creativity button and achieving a moment’s pleasure out of tons of pain.
I could’ve just written about Victoria Jackson and her homophobic rants.
A former SNL star, who spews hatred every morning before she even puts on her feckin’ pants.
I could’ve talked about how every comedian I know seems to have the cancer. Alright two of them, but that’s two too many, and it’s just another thing for which none of us have an answer.
That stuff is too depressing though and I’d like to create more of a refreshing morning balm. A place of refuge for the blogging weary like when you’re in the desert and you find a lone palm.
Sweet Mother started as one thing and may be becoming a whole other, indeed.
It’s nice to go with the flow though and to not always fight the current and its rapid, rushing, speed.
This blog has given me many things and one of the most beautifully vag-tastical sentiments is what I feel towards all of you. The community here makes me smile and wonder with great people like you, what the feck would Oprah do?
But, the Oprah in me is not here today and neither is my Gayle. Well, you’d know her as Wifesy and, truth be told, she’s a shade or two more pale.
So, that’s it. This little ditty is almost done. That’s right, it’s coming to an end.
This morning I struggled with post ideas, but now it’s alright ‘cause I’ve just up and told a friend.
(You, people, that’s you.)
Good Gawd. Sweet Lawd. How in the hell do you wrap one of these suckers up?
Maybe by letting you all know I’d never be gay enough to use a menstrual cup?
Ewwwssssy. Whhhyyyssy? Was that too much? Have I gone too far?
I’m saying no ‘cause I feel like the next round’s been bought for me and I’m a favorite at this bar.
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