I've Got Nothing.

Can you actually write about writer's block? I'm going to try and find out. Thankfully this doesn't happen to me very often, as I'm a vertible fricking font of useless information and startling nerdiness. But the last three days have been Sahara-dry in terms of material. For example, here's a fascinating tidbit to keep you rapt: I'm going upstairs to make tea.

OK - I'm back. Here's another thing I need to get off my chest: My cat likes to jump onto my desk and stare mournfully at me while I'm typing. Like he maybe thinks I'm writing to the South End animal shelter and pleading with them to come and take his annoying orange ass away. Speaking of the South End, did you notice that I just a) mentioned that I have a cat and b) am drinking tea? I imagine there's probably a line of sailors forming outside my apartment right now just waiting to slap their cocks off my forehead.

I'm going to fold laundry now. Oh - and there goes the doorbell. I hate being right all the time.