Creative block

I've run out of pithy observations. I've adopted my own metro stare and I'm avoiding elevators with a high rate of success.

My cleverness no longer impresses me. Fake mustaches stuck to my forehead and the line, "they'll grow on you," notwithstanding.

Generally, I feel heard. I don't need an outlet to share my thoughts, because I have people who are willing to listen to me, or at least "like" my Facebook status updates.

I stumble over words when I'm trying to write. This may be self-perpetuating. I don't write as much, so I don't practice and then I haven't practiced, so I don't feel like writing.

So much is being said. There are so many blogs, that have started and stopped, and started again. Sometimes I feel like every idea I have has already been spewed onto the Internet before. Probably in song and with better visual effects.

I want to write. At least I think I do. Yet, I'm impatient. I don't like to revise. I like to get it out and be done with it. I like to write something and smile a self-satisfied smile while I wipe my hands of it. Maybe I've become more critical. My internal editor has seen it before and he wants it to be better. The writer in me needs to step up and answer the challenge.

For now, he's going running.