So, is writing about writer's block fair?

I mean, like, it seems like it's a little too easy. Kinda cheap. That's like saying "I'm out of movie ideas. Let's make a movie about it!". Well, knowing Hollywood, that will probably be the next big blockbuster or something.

Seriously, man. They're running out of ideas, so they ruin other things that people liked.

For example, M. Night. Shamama-llama-ding-dong. That guy ruined Avatar: The Last Airbender (TM), and I heard he was going to do it again!

Wait, what was I talking about?

Right! Writer's block. It sucks. And I have it.

I picture it as a big, red block with a smiley face on it, staring into my soul, learning my deepest secrets, and using them to blackmail me or something.

I guess my inspiration is running dry. Music has inspired me in many ways, for example, but I haven't discovered any new songs in awhile, since they play the same god damn ones on the radio all the time, and the songs on my copyrighted music playing device are becoming stale.

And real life never inspires me. It's boring, monotonous, and bland. Kind of like flavorless jello. Why does that exist? Who would ever want it, and why? Anyhow, real life, man. It's boring.

Then again, this is coming from someone who spent most of his life daydreaming, or at home, alone. The few times I'm with friends I'm not really thinking about writing. I'm thinking about the best way to tackle someone, steal the ball they have, then escape without being obliterated because I'm scrawnier than almost everyone else (At least I'm taller than about half of my friends).

Well, either that or excessive video games and sugar.

I have a difficult time being inspired by other stories, because I don't want to mimic and/or copy them. Like, in Burnside, a fiction story I'm currently working on, there's a good portion that takes place in a magical school. I will delete that portion repeatedly if any of it turns out like Harry Potter.

I want to be an author and avoid lawsuits.

Now, I kind of have an idea about how to get around that, but I need to toy with it more. Twist it around, play with it, tug on it, shake it about, you know, that kinda stuff.

That sounds wildly inappropriate. But you know what I mean (I hope).

I don't really have anyone to bounce ideas off of, literally and metaphorically. It's just me and my insanity, which worked out well for awhile, but I'm growing less crazy. It's kind of disappointing. I should go witness a murder or something. Get some of that lunacy back.

Just kidding I shouldn't do that.

I should murder someone myself! No, that's a worse idea.

No murder.

For now.

I could be like some of the famous writers that got drunk off their wits, or did drugs. Or both. Nah, I care too much about my health.

Plus I have no idea where to find that stuff, and I have a feeling if I went to the nearest city and asked, I'd end up being ripped off really badly, or shot. Or both somehow.

Probably both.

So, instead of all that stuff, I'm left talking to myself, my cat (Who seems to have no interest), and the ghost that I swear is following my around. I named him/her Silhouette.

And I like to imagine Silhouette with a top hat and fancy cape.

Stay classy, you saucy bastard.

And don't go all Paranormal Activity on me. Those movies all sucked. They were more of comedies than horror flicks.

Again, M. Night Shamama-llama-ding-dong's work. The Happening was the first snowball that created the avalanche that is his failing career as a director/writer/whatever he does. I've stopped paying attention.

God damn, what is this, a blog? I'm sorry. I should go to bed, but I'm not tired. I'll just stare at the ceiling until it bores me to sleep.