For those of you just joining me (which is most likely everyone) good morning.
It’s Sunday. The weekend is basically over.
I’m hung-over, you’re hung-over, we’re all hung-over.
Hate me yet?
Being a writer makes being hung-over VERY difficult (side note: I have decided to OFFICIALLY call myself a writer because, who cares? And also, it makes me sound pretentious and hip as opposed to the “I haven’t put on pants or make-up in three days” situation that is my life). My problem is, I’m too busy composing the perfect “drunk text” when I’m downing my bottle of wine, that I don’t consider writing things that could make me money (AKA: my job) and taking Ernest Hemingway’s advice:
Write drunk, edit sober.
Now, apparently this guy wrote some stuff and did some things and knew how to put words together. I’m not saying I’m the female Hemingway-that’s not for me to say. That’s for other people to say. And an old guy at a pirate bar bought me a shot of absinth once so like, I get it, Ernest #ModestBrag.
But, right now, everything I just said is irrelevant. Thanks for the support though.
RIGHT NOW: I’m faced with the “what to write about question?” Remember in school when you’d have tests that you had to write an essay that would determine your future? That’s my everyday life, except it determines if I’ll be able to buy enough cheap wine to make me forget that this is the life I chose (please play a melodramatic song in your head while reading the last line).
Point being: It’s Sunday. I’m still in bed. Trying to figure out how to make an at-home IV to pump caffeine in my veins and thus be able to write enough TSM columns for the week to pay for my addiction to Taco Bell and bad decisions.
This, my friends, is called writers block.
Welcome to the world of a contributing writer. Isn’t it glamorous?
yeahokaywhat 