Sunday, September 30, 2007

Therapists for $100.

I have writer's block. I am blocked like I've never before been blocked and it appears there is nothing I can do but snuggle up with my blockedness and wait for it to pass.

I blame work. I've had to write so many things this past week that I firmly believe I may have actually used all the words I have in stock. There are no more words. At least no funny ones.

It isn't for lack of funny stuff that I can no longer write, that's for sure. Trust me when I tell you a lot of funny crap has happened to me lately and since I am blocked and can't write about it, I guess you really will have to trust me.

One funny thing that happened involved some guy who I thought was going to rape me. See what I mean? That does not sound at all funny when I write it here, and yet it was entirely funny.

He had three or four teeth that were all overlapped into what appeared to be one giant woodchuck tooth. It was yellow. His giant woodchuck tooth, I mean. His hair was slicked to one side with what I assume from the smell wafting off his head was old shortening and he wore a wife beater that was probably once white but the sweat produced from numerous actual wife beatings had turned gray.

This man, this sweaty little man with beady eyes and Velcro tennis shoes, wanted me desperately. I know that sounds like I'm all conceited and everything, but it's true nonetheless. He was giving me the constant "Hey Baby" eye and he tried to woo me with a display of his manliness by putting his foot up on the front bumper of his 1985 Ford four door as we talked.

I was indeed wooed. I think perhaps it was the glimpse of white leg atop his white knee socks that his too short pants uncovered. Yummy.

(Still not funny. Stupid blockage.)

Long story short, he was all up in my personal space and I thought for sure he was going to rape me so I packed up my crazy and left. When I called Deputy Pretty to report my near rape, he said he would "do some checking" which is cop code for "I'm just saying words now so you will go away". He didn't even offer to extend his asp and beat my almost raper senseless.

So I called the Evil Red-Headed Berta Lou who it so happens is a 9-1-1 dispatcher. She sent no police cars screaming my way. No burly trigger happy boys in blue were dispatched to my aid. Nope. The best she could do was tell me, "don't marry him". Good advice to be sure, but not what I was hoping for.

Of course, when finally I told Mr. Man, I was absolutely certain that he would kill my sort of wanna be woodchuck rapist and for his crime, spend many years in maximum security where I would visit him every third Sunday and smuggle in his favorite M&M's hidden in a secret baggie. (Not a rectal baggie though. Nobody is worth a rectal baggie.)

Instead of murderous rage however, all I got from the Mister was, "You were not almost raped. You are being dramatic."

To recap, three of the people I love most think I am entirely un-rape-able.

Wait a minute. That's really not funny, is it? See what I mean? Blocked. I'm blocked so bad it's gonna take a huge mental prune danish to unblock me.

What am I going to do? Where do I go? What will become of me?

Woe is me. Woe, I tell you. Flat out serious woe.


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2 comments:

Jami said...

When I first read that you were blocked, I was very sympathetic and was going to offer you my proven solution: Ex-Lax, a high-fiber bran muffin and a big glass of water. Then I read further and saw that you had writer's block and realized that I was out of my league since it might take more than my solution to pass a writer. I hope you can work it out.

(FWIW, I laughed.)

Sher said...

If only all I needed was more fiber. ;-)