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Want to know the fastest way to Zoe’s heart?  This is what they would serve for every meal in Zoe’s heaven.

Want to know the fastest way to Zoe’s heart?  This is what they would serve for every meal in Zoe’s heaven.

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It’s funny how it works.

I’m bored.  I’ve got a guitar, a loop pedal, a pen, and a hazy head…but I just can’t seem to do anything with them.  Maybe it’s this pipe in my hand.  Maybe it’s the Laurelwood Dark Ale messing with my mind. Maybe.

The weird thing is that I’ve done this all before.  It’s not like drinking a beer shuts me down.  ”Oh no!  I’m drunk! That’s it. It’s over. No writing for me today.”  And yet…I’m still blank.  

What do I do?  Do I call my mom?  Do I rant and cry and complain about how sick and tired I am of this non-stop writers block and how no matter what I do, it clings to me like a parasite, leeching every last drop of blood from my puny, little brain?  Yep.  That’s what I do.  

{45 min later}

I’ve got it!  I grab the guitar, I flip the switch and let that teeny red light burn brighter than it’s ever been, and I play.  The music flows from my fingers and I’m Hemingway writing of gigantic fish in the wide open ocean.  Okay, okay…I’ll take that back.  I’m certainly no Hemingway, but you get the point.  The block is gone!  A wave rushes over me, warm and comforting, like a baby’s blanket, tucked tight between your fingers.  I don’t even have to think!  It just spills out of me like it’s been trapped inside, scratching at the walls of my skin. I couldn’t even stop playing if I wanted to!  So natural, so clean, so eas…it’s gone.

What the hell? I’m playing as if that’s how I breathe and then all of a sudden…it’s just noise?  Blah! Blam! Block.  Seriously?  How can you do this to me?! How can you ruin something so brilliant?! So perfect?! So HAP..PY…

…happy. Happy. That’s what it is.  I can’t write because I’m happy. Sure, sure…I’m all pissed and upset that nothing is going the way I want and everything is a complete block and THAT’S when it flows…but when I start putting it down on paper and my mind fills with visions of grandeur…I flop.  I’m done.  Pick up the pipe.  Chug that beer. You’re finished.  

Funny how that works.  You write when you need it…not when you want it.  Either that or I just need to grow up and put on some big boy pants. 

Chad. Out.