Under Construction

Too often these days I stare at this screen, trying to think of something to say, and coming away with nothing but a cursor blinking away at me. Taunting me, like it knows I've got nothin'.

I've wanted to get back int o being better, if only to do something consistent away from going in to work and trying to keep from being overwhelmed by some guy's body odor while I sweat through my tattered, old shirts at the gym. (Seriously, same guy every time. People are always around him, chatting him up, too. I have no clue how they haven't been quarantined due to exposure yet.)

I know that for my own wellbeing, I need to -- Who else will make fun of Brett Favre? -- but for some reason, it's harder than just saying "Ok, let's' do it."

I'm not sure what to call it. Writer's block seems like too cliche an explanation, although it could very well be the truth. While rationalizing the fact that I don't have internet access at home would be handy, I know of ways to circumvent that. I just haven't done it too often.

I guess that's the preparation for saying this whole writing again thing seems to be more of a work in progress thing than I'd like. But it's getting better. I mean, right now. I'm writing, see? So that's a start. And then tomorrow, hope fully I'll write. Then Monday. And so on and so forth.

After all, I do have some subject matter. Like the horrible (horrible) drivers in Chicago. Or the aforementioned, supremely stinky gym rat. Or the old love life. Or the start of what could be my next "step." All good material. Maybe in the coming days, I'll get into a few of them. Until then, I guess just settle for the fact that I'm working on it...and am almost there.

Take that, cursor, you smug bastard.