Pick up a pen, set a timer, it’s probably not Chlamydia.

You know when you get a bikini wax and the woman tells you to exfoliate after but you’re not really listening because her head is between your legs and you’re wondering why you didn’t take your socks off? And then you’re wondering how you ended up with candy corn socks because you definitely didn’t buy them? And then you go home, don’t exfoliate or use any of the $400.00 serums she insisted were necessary, and a week later convince yourself you have all of the STDs? Anyway, this is what my writing has been like recently.

Writer’s block is the worst fake STD ever. It involves all of the anguish of a real condition, and the fact that so far there has been no itching has done little to calm my growing paranoia. It is almost definitely the reason why that man crossed the street this morning as I was walking towards him, only to cross back over once he had passed me by.* And my mental health continues to deteriorate: yesterday afternoon I sat down to pen my obituary. Only to come up with nothing.

It occurred to me halfway through the subsequent tantrum (after the tears but before my face did that really startling thing with the purple blotches) that this would be more of an emergency if I was actually in need of an obituary. It then occurred to me that if I actually needed an obituary, I could stop worrying about having writer’s block. Before anything else could occur to me, the small (and shrinking) part of my brain that is still sane forced me to admit that writer’s block is slightly less terrible than being dead. Though in terms of my current productivity, the states are identical.

So here is the big question. Is my writer’s block real or do I need a therapist? It’s real in the sense that my belief in it is a real impediment to my getting anything written. It’s fake in the sense that my belief in it is utterly divorced from reality. If I sit down with a pen and a timer set to 10 minutes, I will write at least two pages of B- to C+ work. One page if I’m typing. Half-a-page if I’m writing in Klingon. B+ work if I’ve eaten 10g of protein within the hour. Why then, am I wasting your time with this self pitying article? Because committing to the free-write is hard! For one thing, in the roughly 180 seconds before I come up with something passably amusing, I will probably convince myself that I need to create a profile on Sugarbabies.com and then begin worrying about how to tactfully discuss allowances with my middle-aged lover. Also, I’m trying to finish Cheers before someone alive in the 80s ruins the ending for me, and that really cuts down on my availability.

Congratulations — you caught me. Yes, those were fake reasons. You can give yourself a little good-job squeeze. The real reason is way less funny, which is why I led with the fake ones. Why then, truly, don’t I just make myself sit down and write? I. Don’t. Know. Quit asking me. I have a problem and if you have any suggestions of places I can check myself into please send me a private message with your name, a character reference, and the café menu of the proposed institution.**

But if my time in women’s prison*** has taught me anything, it is this: thinking you’re dumb and witless is almost as destructive as being dumb and witless. Much better to assume you’re brilliant and let others correct you. At least you’ll be productive in the meantime. Because present at the beginning of all my best work is the conviction that I am unusually gifted. Like truly special. This is embarrassing to admit, but I am not exaggerating at all. Only once I am safely swaddled in my largely fabricated belief that I am an American treasure like J. D. Salinger and Tom Hanks, can I start writing. And stop worrying about contacting everyone I have been in “contact” with in the last 6 months to “check up” on what things are flowing forth from their pen.

*For the sake of journalistic integrity I should probably also mention that I very loudly yelled “mama likey” when I saw him.

**For reasons I do not wish to disclose, I cannot go back to White Sands Meditation & Wellness Center.

***This is just a joke. Arrested but never convicted.

Click the ❤ to show your friends/family that you are STD free! #cleankitchen