or reasons for my blogging lameness of late
Okay, so you know how when you decide to start an exercise regimen and you're all gung ho at the start and you get up every morning much earlier than any human with any sense should rise and you dawn your work-out clothes and jump on the treadmill and lift weights and sweat and actually start to feel stronger as the days pass? This lasts about, oh..two to three months.
Then you go on vacation.
Kiss of death. And when you come back you just can't seem to get back into the swing of things because on vacation you ate what you wanted, when you wanted, slept in till whenever because you weren't about to get up early to exercise since you were up late socializing over cocktails with friends and family...
Yeah, blogging apparently is like that. For me anyway.
When I began this ramble-fest last October, it felt like that initial rush of adrenaline you get from the start of an exercise routine, only my writing muscle was the thing being flexed and pumped full of blood. The flood gates of my imagination were flung wide open, and I literally could not sleep in for all the ideas, notions and observations gushing forth. I would wake to postings whispered in my ear from my newly rejuvenated subconscious.
The effortlessness of the process was incredibly thrilling and satisfying not to mention intoxicating. (Seriously. You should go back to the beginning and read some of the entries. They were much better than this recent lot. Except for Rhett Fest)
Then I went on a "vacation" of sorts. Between physical therapy twice a week (I've got back/hip issues, don't ask.), literally going to the gym and Pilates classes multiple times per week, getting home later from work and making dinner (a task from which Geo reminds me I've also vacationed of late. Okay, he's right on that one, so I can't use that as an excuse..even though I will. Hey, it's my blog.) I've unintentionally taken a break from jotting entertaining tidbits and what have you.
Now my discipline has dissolved. Well is dry. Done. Finished. Finito. The flashing cursor mocks me for the wordless loser I am. Now I hunch over this keyboard, sweaty palms, blank stare, numb mind. Waiting for something ... anything to inspire.
If only someone would invent a microchip that could be implanted in my head to record my thoughts as they scroll through the wasteland of my mind. That would be so SWEET! Seriously. I can't tell you how many brilliant blog entries have slipped through my figurative fingers while driving for lack of pen and paper... and the whole having-to-drive-with-two-hands thing. Kinda crucial for, you know, surviving travels through the high-speed, urban jungle.
Dear Science Nerds:
Please get on that microchip thingie ASAP.
Now I have to leave to, you guessed it.. hit the gym yet again. The worst part is the pain hasn't subsided much, and it's not like I'm getting that much more svelte. WTF?
Enough belly-aching and lame excuses. A friend of mine recently pointed out this peculiarity from the "Warnings" posted on the back of every toothpaste tube.
Okay, first of all...who ingests a bunch of toothpaste on purpose? And second...what the HELL is in this stuff that's so poisonous?!?!?!
Death By Toothpaste.
Wouldn't that be the lamest demise EVER?