Bastard. Other writers bring me back

I'm going to start off by saying I've spent the last month not writing. I have consciously tried not being a writer. and thus. not writing.

It was hell and heaven at the same time. (note how 30 days of not writing has made this writer a tad derivative).

So I revelled in "days off"...guilt free moments of not feeling like I "should" be writing. I slept. I watched tv. I hung out. Not with people, mind you, just with myself.

I even let my cell phone die and I haven't been on it for a couple weeks now. I became the person I always wanted to be. A recluse.

Sure, the insomnia kicked in. The panic attacks. The hypochondria. All the things that happen to me when I don't write. But I would talk myself down and endure. And it was good.

In that time, I got a great job. I re-assessed some things in my life. I pruned activities. Found a tv show. Said farewell to a roommate and friend (he is now likely on top of a whore in the Philipines, God bless him). I relaxed. I painted a bathroom. I met a boy. I lived. Goddammit. I lived.

And then it happened. My roommate is on word 9,852. The boy I met....writes. And we parted with one of us having the intent to write. It wasn't me. Writing Writing Writing. The world is filled with writers and they're making my head hurt.

I said goodbye and good writing to this boy, closed the door, and took a deep breath of non-writer contentment. Suddenly. Oh, so suddenly. I got a pang. It was mild at first, but I knew immediately that this pang was taking me to the inevitable. I would write.

And so I went online and checked email, hoping that would sate me. But no one emailed (er, reclusivity has drawbacks). And then I went shopping for a new mattress. No sating me. So I read some blogs. Not sated. In fact, terribly jonesing.

So I went here. And the craziest thing. The first two times, I found myself at a Christian armageddon website. Not sure how, but I was rerouted. My blog was gone.

End of the world indeed. All those posts. All those baby monologues for my monologue shows. All those witty words replaced by some crazy end-times "fact sheet".

Ironic. Not in the true sense, but in the Alanis Morisette sense.

And I walked away. This was too much trouble. I knew I didn't need to be a writer.

Free again.

And then someone went to the same computer (it's the Sugar Shack computer), cursed, and fixed it.

And there was my blog.

And here I am.