To call it writers block would be understating the fact.
Writers Forest is more like it.
Writers Doomsday Forest is even more accurate.
Nothing is happening in my brain-to-finger-equals-typing equation.
There is no funny verse percolating in my coffee pot brain, not humorous rhymes bubbling in my stew – in short, depression rules unto the 26th letter of the alphabet, and all combinations thereof.
What little that is rattling away in the very empty desert that used to be the forest, (said forest being decimated by the “blurgh” disease, that ran rampant and has only left little stumps which I keep bumping into and banging my head upon), is so downbeat that only moles are going to hear it – naked mole rats, those really ugly blind ones that crawl right over he top of each other in their tunnels, just to get to the tasty stringy root.
Not even a mother could love them, which is probably why they are blind, because if they could see themselves they would go into immediate spontaneous species extinction due to shock, seeing as they all thought they looked like Cap’n Jack Sparrow on a bad day (which is his good day), when in actual fact they look exactly like naked mole rats – something the cat refused to throw up as it was so completely beneath a cats dignity to eat something that ugly in the first place.
I hope the sun shines tomorrow, I can’t stand my own negativity!