Writers Block And Cracked Eggs

Tonight, just like every other night, the moment I sat down to write, my wife started her nightly ritual of calling out my name from the other room. This ritual is part comedy, part tragedy. We could sit in the same room for hours without her saying a word to me but the moment I sit down to write or work on photos the cat calls start. I could swear to the heavens that she has a special listening device that knows the moment my ass hits the seat. The calls are rather urgent, kind of like the scream who just walked into the room to find the dead, bloated body of a stranger lying on the bathroom floor. It’s jarring to say the very least. An hour later, my nerves are frayed and I’ve all but given up being able to write anything. Tonight it was the news. Something about American Idol and Steven Tyler having Jennifer Lopez’s ass surgically fitted to where his face used to sit. Then there was her dropping a hard boiled egg. That was a real emergency. What a cleanup that was. I hope the Fire Department didn’t mind bringing the Jaws of Life up three flights of stairs to free the poor thing from it’s cracked shell. So I’ve given up. I was planning on writing that Pulitzer Prize winning article on picking up hot chicks and having them pose nude for you but, I guess that will have to wait. She’s singing now so I’m just going to post this and say goodnight.

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