I have not wanted to not write today so badly since I don’t remember when; but I’m a-doin’ it anyway. And because I’m half-assing it, I’m not making it over the speed bump. I’m conking out at the gate. I’m writing about writing. I love each and every one of you who reads this; I genuinely do. And I don’t care under what pretense you’re reading – God bless you for showing up. (Believe it or not, none of you are Patty. Seriously. My mother has not read a single one of these. That’s OK, though. We like her anyway.) I write all day, five days a week, for money. I prostitute my words and trade my shame for things like a place to live, food for assorted pets, medium-ash blonde hair-dye. And I love it. I love writing for a living. I love shaping the language and enhancing its delivery with tasty punctuation. But you must understand, my life is a blank Word document. A 500 word press release on a topic with which I’m not familiar may take me three hours. I type 90 words-per-minute. That’s a whoooole lotta staring at a varying-stages-of-blank Word document. Then I come home and start a new face-off with a blank WordPress page. My daily desire to write about writing and why I don’t want to do it anymore today is something I’ve affectionately dubbed my Speed-Bump. It’s something I have to get past, every night, in order to get on with it. But you know what? It’s Friday. It’s Friday and I’ve had a hell of a month and I just don’t feel like giving it the gas required to get over the speed-bump. So here you go. Here’s a little less than 300 words about why I didn’t want to write anything.