I don’t have anything interesting to say today. Trust me, I thought of everything. But nonetheless, no quirky anecdotes, no off-color references or mildly offensive dialogue to offer. The words just aren’t there. Only a blank screen with a brown and sticky keyboard, because I thought a fudgesicle might get the creative juices flowing. It only slowed me down; part of me knew it would.

What else is there to say? Sometimes you’ve got it, sometimes you don’t. It doesn’t happen often, but all I’m working with at the moment is an empty head and a full sweater, which, if I were a bouncer, would put me on a fast track to becoming head of bar security. But if your job is to write something people will read, it doesn’t do a thing.

Nope, all there is to do is sit and sing the blues.

It’s not a good feeling, being unproductive. But at least I’m getting paid, right?

“That’s a horrible outlook,” my conscious says. “Buck up, squeeze something out, anything. But don’t just wallow in your chair and make up lame excuses.”

He’s right. I had some lame ones, too, like: “I wouldn’t be so groggy if I hadn’t been up all night worried about Jane Seymour, who couldn’t perform on ‘Dancing with the Stars’ because she’s sick with food poisoning.”