Writer's Block

I sat starkly staring at stern stories untold and thoughts I couldn't form into sentences. My problem was that I kept taking a post modernest stance to my writing and continually questioned its and my existence. What does my writing contribute to society? Indigestion? Paper herpes?

"NO! I should give up". I thought.

"I really need to do something memorable. Something my grandchildren could remember me for". That's when I decided to assassinate the president.

15 minutes later, after sobering up, I realized that was a pretty bad idea. After all, if people remember presidential assassins, they'd remember Leon Czolgosz or LBJ. No, I really needed to do something memorable. Something where ex girlfriends could say "I used to date the guy who did that". Something where my parents could say "I am no longer entirely ashamed of my son because he did this". But what was that thing?

Poet? Maybe. I gave it a try.

Why do our knuckles crack?
is it loss, is it pain?
Oh my Jewish Nose
The blood red spackle stain

Then I realized that I was a horrible poet and I didn't know what iambic pentameter was. Even the world "iambic" looked like a Ukrainian side dish that came with my Hulhulash, which, incidentally was a word I just made up.

OK, what else could I be? A musician???

So I sat down, wrote and recorded this song:



So, obviously, that's a wash.

"What else could I do with my life to potentially make it memorable?". I wondered.

Then I looked at the clock and realized that it was 1:30am; just in time to catch the second episode of the hour long "Golden Girls" block on Lifetime. Whatever wonderful thing I could be doing would have to wait until tomorrow.


POSTSCRIPT: This was the same note that Matt jotted to himself every single night. He died penniless and alone at the age of 110. His final words were "I'll do it tomorrow".

No one came to his funeral or remembered him.