Becoming Hank

For the first time in my entire life, I have what is known as "Writer's Block." I've tried everything to find some way of getting words from inside my mess of a brain and onto paper, but for the past few weeks I have been almost completely incapable of doing so. I think the problem is based on a flaw at the start of the writing process. See, its called Writer's Block, which reads to me like there's a block in your brain stopping the words going from head to paper. But my head is empty. I have nothing. I have no ideas, no clever lines, no anything. I can't even seem to throw together a fucking sentence.

The funny thing is that I have, in the past, written some of my greatest pieces when upset or depressed. And yet now, I am upset and depressed and unable to write, making a bad situation even worse. I can't even throw together an entertaining blog.

So what do I do instead? I drink. I drink a lot. I smoke. I fuck. Sometimes, I do them together. Life is more fun in combination. And then I wallow. And when the day is done, I go to bed, wake up, and do it all again. Occasionally I'll sit down and try to squeeze out a word, but when I stare into the darkness of my head, my brain separated from the one real skill that I have in my life, the one vent in my entire world, I light up a smoke, throw the base of a bottle into the air, and I drink away the darkness.

I have, in every aspect of my life, become Hank Moody. And I don't like it one bit.