Not only have I not figured out how to flow like that all the time, but, when I do, it paralyzes me for days and weeks afterwards. I get this idea in my head that what happened was merely an uncharacteristic paroxysm of some sort, as though I did not really have a hand in writing something that satisfied me.
Of course, I'm writing this now in between double fisting barbecue peanuts and buttered popcorn, because, although I had a hysterectomy well over three years ago, I still get to do the hormonal hula, and it's hard to see anything with clear eyes when I've regressed into an incarnation of my fourteen-year-old self, wallowing in self-pitying dysmorphia bouyed up by neck pimples and five pounds of water weight.
Let's all have a moment to weep over the fact that I couldn't get my wedding rings off without greasing myself up with butter this morning. I know. It's deeply tragic.
Also, I'm pissed at a bird that keeps singing like it's spring outside my window, because I've checked the weather, and he's a damned liar, I'll tell you what.
My father once told me that good writers could write under any condition, even in war zones. I don't know why he was giving me writing advice. He's a hockey player, and I don't think he's had to play hockey while a scourge of pimples overtook his neck. If he had, then he would be more understanding of my creative woes.
That's a lot of words to say wah wah wah send me a wahmbulance.
Pass the chips, please.