I feel Charles's pain

My buddy Charles just published a post in which he noted a certain lack of motivation to write. True: sometimes it's hard to summon up the mighty ball juice to put something out there. Tonight, at least, I think I know how he feels, although perhaps for different reasons. Charles says that he asks himself whether what he has to say is worth saying out loud, and the answer is often "no." If anything, he finds himself biting his tongue or, as he puts it, self-censoring. In my case, I have plenty of (generally stupid) shit to say, but because I now work corporate hours, I find myself coming home tired, lapping only halfheartedly at Thalia's crotch whenever I sit down to blog, bathing in a sad, stingy trickle of her inspiration-juice.

But fear not, Charles, for we are men, and these things always move in cycles. What is limp now will be tumescent in good time, and when our ardor quickens and the gleam comes again to our eye, we will prowl the meadow of fresh ideas that lies open and sunlit before us, seizing by the neck every unsuspecting prairie dog that dares to pop out, impaling those little bastards on our oak-hard shafts. And when one prairie dog has been death-fucked, its creative essence now a lubricant for our rigid exultation, we'll move on to the next—and to the next—and TO THE NEXT—until we are wearing prairie-dog condoms! And when the last prairie dog has been sent screaming to hell, we'll run madly through the fields, our creativity-boners preceding us like swollen, bouncing knights' lances, fair maidens leaping and squealing and grabbing at our fur-covered manhoods as we streak by, faster than thought itself.

And on that propitious day, good friend, we shall write.


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