Couldn’t stop thinking about it when I did anything else but writing about it (I tried). I simply HAD to get to the frigging end. Uh-huh, even though my body was aching and I was having trouble seeing the computer monitor because my eyes were crossing from staring at the ding-danged monitor for hours.

Um, why can’t I feel that way about my writing, my characters?

I have no answers lately. I am all about the questions.

[insert sound of frustration here]

If I had the answer for that, I'd be a much more happy camper here in effin We-Ho-Land. (Okay, so trying to care about something when you don't really care about much of anything is like trying to appreciate the sound a violin makes when the hairs on your arms are raising. I don't want to write about that stuff. How utterly boring.)

So yeah-yeah, I haven't written hooey-blooey lately. Not for lack of trying, though. I have lots of half-ass blog posts that smack of left-of-centeredness. Unhingey goodness that isn't actually all that good for public consumption. Consider yourself well-spared, nod and pretend like you know what I mean because if you're human, you've been there and all.

Anyfriggingway, as the days passed and no new entries were sent into the electronic cosmos, I'd think crap-crap-crap, haven’t written diddly and so what if you don’t feel like writing, Andi, the world’s not going to end if nobody reads your mind barfage. But it didn't really help, if you want to know the truth, and not because the world wasn't receiving my portion of so-called "greatness". I suffer in all kinds of ways when I don't write. Here, there or otherwise. It sucks, but I guess knowing this could be helpful because I know how to make it hurt less.

I have come to two unhappy conclusions:

1. I must get up extra early to write morning pages.

...morning pages are three pages of stream-of-consciousness longhand morning writing. You should think of them not as "art" but as an active form of meditation for Westerners. In the morning pages we declare to the world—and ourselves—what we like, what we dislike, what we wish, what we hope, what we regret, and what we plan.

(I have to stop gagging about this. Really. Must. Stop.)

2. After dutifully writing my morning pages, I should stretch. Strrrrretch. And breathe. Breathing is always good.

I don't know which exercise I shudder at most, but for Great Googly-Moogly's Sake and my sense of general well being (and my peace, love and happiness), I must do both of these things.

And, well, shit.

Moving on.

They (Hollywood's henchmen and hirelings-on, I guess) were filming an upcoming Adam Sandler movie (Funny People) in front of the building where I work! last week. There was no sign of Adam Sandler, though. No. Frigging. Sign. I can't believe I live in West Hollywood and the only claim I have of face-to-face celebrity-sighting is being stepped on by Rebecca DeMornay's asshole boyfriend at LAX.

In other news....

Wonder of wonders, women are still finding it difficult to pee in the toilet hole in the restrooms where I work. It's stupid of me to blog about this, but God! It makes me so MAD. The last woman I caught (who came out of the stall as I entered the restroom and that stall was the only unoccupied stall) looked like a PTA mom. How do these disgusting, sicko excuses function? Do they piss all over the seat and floor in their bathroom? I swear, next time I will go charging after someone just to ask this question.

"I work here!" I'll say in a non-accusing tone of comic steel. (How I'll manage this is anyone's guess. I'm open for suggestions.) "Would it kill you to wipe your pee off the seat so I don't feel like screaming, barfing or wasting my time wondering about the hygienic non-habits of skanks and rich bitches?"

Okay, so I probably shouldn't say the words skank or bitch. But I'll be thinking them the whole time and I'm sure it will be written on my face BIG time because how do you hide something like that? I'm not a politician. Every argen-fargen second I'll be fighting against myself to not to rip the woman's head off and shit down her neck.

SO WHAT! This is one of Pink's songs. I love it. Yeah! Happy Freaking Holidays, ya'll.

It’s more my style to complain about it anonymously to you lucky readers, heh, heh, heh. But sheeshus. Instead of finding wet toilet seats, I’d like to find a $20 bill. Just once, you know? Or twice, hey, I won’t complain.

My backspace key is still shot. Since I caved on finishing NaNoWriMo and forfeited my new keyboard, I do the raspberry when I mistype and unthinkingly press the ain't-working backspace key. It's fun. Yeah. Yeah. (Not.)

Life is ever so exciting. I can barely stands it, I tell you. (sorry, oogie)
________

Gaspa! Keanu is back in The Day The Earth Stood Still. Woo, baby.

10 Did the Unhingey Jiggy Engage in Unhingenosity
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