The past 38 minutes I’ve spent attempting to write this post have been comprised of the following repetitive actions:
1. Stare at screen (anywhere from 5-10 secods, total blank stare).
2. Go to “Drafts” and attempt to flesh out one of the three posts that have been there for months.
3. Go to “Posts” to read my old ones and find out why the hell I started this whole thing to begin with.
4. Lament the fact that for the past two years, all writing has been done on a tiny Bluetooth keyboard (with a currently malfunctioning “N” key). This has been both torturous ad has served as a constant reminder to take my laptop to be fixed; something I’ve clearly yet to do.
5. (My favorite as of yet) Pull the collar of my shirt over my head and stare at the room from inside my shirt. This is oddly comforting and gives me a newfound appreciation of turtles.
I got nothing, y’all.
Oh sure, I could go for easy and rattle off five good things Adrien Broner could have been doing yesterday instead of sexual battery (1. Cross stitch 2. Anything but rapping 3. Bowling. (Haaaaaay!) 4. Plunging toilets previously clogged with $20 bills and, 5. I dunno, training?)
Or I could discuss my admiration of Paul Malignaggi’s meticulously shaped eyebrows. (2012 was a peak year for Paulie’s brows, if you ask me. Although it’s clear that his priorities have lied elsewhere in more recent years, his eyebrows remain a thing of beauty to this day.)
I could even talk about the number of times I’ve accidentally punched myself in the face while boxercising (anywhere between 3-5, always when I’m throwing straight rights. With that kind of abject consistency you’d think that I would have fixed it by now, really.)
But instead…nothing. This post is as lonely and sad as Floyd standing in his masionesque kitchen awaiting his cousin Roy.
Truly, I am not firemen. Not tonight, anyway.