"What I wanted was mercy, but I didn't know what that word meant."

Let me warn you up front: This post isn't going to be anything artistic or even anything real, but, by all means, read on.

I have to tell you something. It's this: I'm stuck. Writing used to be so easy for me. I could turn anything into a poem or a blog post or a journal entry or at least a clever email to Hayley Walker. But then Hayley and I stopped emailing each other and my journal got more and more "Artifacts of Note" and less and less actual words about actual ideas and for sure it got less than ever actually developed and fleshed-out ideas -- and I hate the word "flesh" but look at me now. And I worry about this blog. All I seem to do is write at anonymously at people who might even read about themselves and then they probably don't even know it's them, but that's narcissistic of me to think half the people I write at actually read this, you know?

I just want to give you something beautiful. I want to give you all ideas that are developed and fleshed-out and I want you to read what I have to say and relate and be touched and hopefully I've put words to something you haven't quite been able to put words to. I've always been grateful for Avery Taylor and Buddy Wakefield for being able to do that for me. I'm grateful for Avery and Buddy for putting words to my own self when I can't, which seems to be happening more and more often than it used to.

I think this is called writer's block. They say it happens to everyone. I keep googling "cures for writer's block" and "when will writer's block go away" and "i hate writer's block so much yeah it sucks."

I have one line. That's it. That's all I've got. I've got, "Chew your food, darling. Stop swallowing things whole." That's all. And I don't know where to go from there. I've got something about eggshells, but I don't know what it is. It's on the tip of my tongue, but I feel like swallowing it instead of spitting it out.

You hear about writer's block all the time. Like, it's a thing, right? And it happens to me sometimes, but only for a week or two or something. Not like this. This is like nothing is getting down on paper right and all the stuff that used to bleed out of me, some of which was even pretty good sometimes, it's just... like blood clots or something.

Plus there's this theory that everything you could possibly say has already been said by someone somewhere at sometime in the existence of mankind. Like, what's the point of even talking if everything you ever say has already been thought up and vocalized by somebody else?

All I do anymore is grocery shopping and yoga. I want my words back. If you find them, please please please let me know. Show up on my doorstep or call me up or send me a telegram and say, "Hey, baby, I found your words! I know where they went!" Give me their longitude and latitude, and I'll go anywhere for them. Anywhere. I miss them. And when I find them, I'll keep them on a leash. I'll lock 'em up.

Say a prayer for me. Send good vibrations my way.

I already tried a change of scenery. Maybe I just have bad karma lately.

I just didn't think it would make me this sad.

"Smoking is not allowed on any Delta flight."

All my love,

Addy

The truth about time.

"So it goes."

That's what Mr. Vonnegut taught me.


I have writer's block. It's awful.
All my love,
Addy

I have enough time for spring cleaning.

"Don't say you don't have enough time. You have exactly the same number of hours per day that were given to Helen Keller, Pasteur, Michaelangelo, Mother Theresa, Leonardo da Vinci, Thomas Jefferson, and Albert Einstein."

I've been in a mood to clean things lately. I started with my nightstand drawer. I found ten dollars from my grandma and grandpa from my eighth birthday; I felt rich. (I'm very obviously unemployed.) Tonight, I'm going to start on my closet... That ought to take long enough. Nonetheless, it's a bit out of character for me on account of I tend to pride myself on my own amount of literary disorder in all that I do.

But I feel as if I am cleaning more than my drawers or my "junk shelves." I am cleaning out my past and all of the pieces of my old me which I am finished with.

It feels nice. Maybe you ought to go clean a thing or two yourself.

Je ne parle pas français. C'est bien.

All my love,

Addy.

P.S. Still afflicted with blogger's block. Sorry for the obvious lame-ness of this post.

P.P.S. Check out the new pages! What do you think?

I'm having writer's block in the very worst way.

I wish I could find the right words to tell you the story of last night's dance party and all of its stunning perfection or the words to tell you of what it's like to fall in love* or the words to give you one moment of the anxiety surrounding my scene that I finally performed yesterday or the words to just... Just write something worth reading. However, I simply cannot find them. So, to make up for that, I am leaving you with the best music video ever made. Ever. And that superlative isn't even a hyperbole.

Ladies and gentlemen, a great song with an even greater music video: "A Thing For Me" by the one and the only, Metronomy.

Wikipedia has a page about itself. It's very long. How narcissistic.

All my love,

Addy.

P.S. I promise to post something real soon. Cause I know all of you are just dying here. (Sarcasm intended.)

*My faith in love could actually possibly be restored. I just can't find the words to explain it to you. They'll come eventually.