I was born in a simpler time, when mice were mice, men were men, and the fluffy stuff under the bed did not introduce itself to me. Since then, all of that has changed, making my life more complicated than it needs to be. Now, besides remembering the names of my schoolmates and coworkers, keeping my grades up, and remembering to feed myself, I must remember the name and feeding habits of the thing under my bed and figure out whether that man standing over yonder is indeed a man and not a mouse (or vice versa).
But I, dear reader, digress.
I currently live somewhere (where I live exactly is still under investigation, but at least it isn't nowhere), where I typically can be found writing, playing Kingdom Hearts, or hoarding gummy bears from my various family members. It is a hard life we writers live, reader.
One day, I was sitting on a couch, blissfully writing my little heart out, when suddenly, it hit me. My mind froze, my hand cramped, and sudden randomness invaded my mind. In a blind stupor, I quickly dialed 911 right before the randomness struck me unconscious. When I awoke, I was in a hospital with an ominous looking doctor standing before me.
"Sir," this masked man articulated, like a bad actor from a soap opera, "you have Writer's Block."
Since that day I have devoted what's left of my random-infected mind to finding a cure to WB. Oh, look, reader, a monarch butterfly. And there is a cloud.
For the sake of writers everywhere, and for mine own sake, we must crush this terrible disease affecting millions of writers galaxy wide. Until we finally find a cure, I will continue to be unable to focus on my book for more than a moment before sinking into the fog of randomness.
Help me, dear reader. Please.
Oh look, out that window. It's a small mammal.
That is all.
-Watzzit Tooyah.
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