I do not want to write.  I shouldn’t have to write.  Even if I did want to write, I wouldn’t want to write here.  Even if I did have anything to say, it wouldn’t be anything about sex.  And if I say anything about sex, or even not about sex, he’s going to read it and it’s going to fuck things up.  Besides which, I have nothing to say, so I should just shut the fuck up.

These are the sort of thoughts swirling around in my head right now.  The writer Annie Lamott calls this type of stuff, which most people have playing in our minds at varying volumes, Radio Station K-FKD.

If you are not careful, station KFKD will play in your head twenty-four hours a day, nonstop, in stereo.  Out of the right speaker in your inner ear will come the endless stream of self-aggrandizement, the recitation of one’s specialness, of how much more open and gifted and brilliant and knowing and misunderstood and humble one is.  Out of the left speaker will be the rap songs of self-loathing, the lists of all the things one doesn’t do well, of all the mistakes one has made today and over an entire lifetime . . .

At the moment, I am feeling seriously kay-fucked.  Part of the time I spend thinking about how vile, fat, and disgusting I am, how old, with crepe-y skin and thinning, whitening hair, how barren, how utterly useless, how profoundly friendless.  The rest of the time I spend prancing about thinking that I rawk, professionally, and that my amazing talents as a writer, thinker, speaker, and ******* [insert my real job title here] are going almost completely unrecognized.

I am up for a promotion.  I have a serious feeling I won’t get it.

As for my relationship, it is in deep freeze.  Some might–actually most people would–view it as over.  I prefer to think of it as hibernating.  Say n’more.

I’m spewing all this because really, there is not much else to spew.  For a few days, I was obsessed with eating Boston Creme Pie Dunkin’ Donuts.  I thought I would write a post entitled “Cream Pie”, and then shock my faithful readers with the realization that I was actually talking about donuts.  But I got hung up on the question of the proper way to illustrate the post, which, as I have mentioned before, is occasionally often always a major undertaking when I contemplate putting something on this blog.  If I don’t have the picture, I won’t post the words.

And so I surfed around for tasteful yet interesting cream pie pictures.  There was this one, almost perfect but for the nasty hint of blood in it.  I even had a bad dream about someone being fucked until she bled.


So I thought perhaps just an ordinary cream pie–the Boston kind–would be fine.


But really, unless you’re feeling like shit about yourself and have a donut-sized version of one of these shoved up under your nose and you’re aiming to consume it within twenty seconds of purchase so that you can add the empty brown-n’-pink D&D bag to the growing pile in the passenger side foot-well of your car–well, frankly, I don’t think this kind of picture has much frisson.

So anyway, I woke up today itching to write.  And I’ve been thinking a lot of chelseagirl, whom I adore.  And about how she wrote her way back to awesomeness, painstakingly, after a breakup.  There’s no way out but through, as Robbie used to say.  So, whether we are broken up or hibernating, whether I am brilliant or utter crap, whether the sun rises tomorrow or not–I want to keep writing.  Because that’s one of the few things more satisfying than a cream pie, of either kind.