Lifestyles of the Dull and the Boring

As 6 p.m. approached, it occurred to me that I had not one single thing to write about because I didn’t do much of anything today. While days like this are necessary to maintain some sanity in my life, they make it exceedingly difficult to find the inspiration to write. I suppose this is why I went approximately 8 years of my adult life without writing a thing. I couldn’t get interested in my own life enough to write about it.  I vowed never to blog because I was certain that if I wasn’t interested in my own life then no one else would be either.

How dull could a day in my life be? Let me enlighten you. Today I woke up at 7:30 and spent about an hour unable to rouse myself from bed. So, I hung out playing Mind Feud on my iPhone. Then, I hauled my lazy butt out from under the covers, threw on some clothes, and helped Steve clean up and put away our camper. This involved (no joke) my using rags to dry off the canvas, screens, and top of our camper before the rains started again. We vacuumed, wiped, and stored the dang thing back in the garage. After that, I thought I might write, but instead found myself on looking for more camping reservations because apparently I figured that since we’d done such a lovely job cleaning the pop-up we should plan to use it again before season’s end. While I was dinking around on the Internet, hubby kept pestering me to get out of the house and go for a ride. So I changed into my hideous, excessively padded, Pearl Izumi bike shorts and rode a quick 15 miles to get him off my back. By the time I finished that and showered, it was roughly 2 p.m. so I ate some lunch. After lunch I attacked the monumental pile of ironing that has been patiently waiting for me. To make that experience palatable, I threw My Week With Marilyn into the DVD player and ironed for the entire length of the movie….1 hour and 38 minutes to be exact. Then it was dinner time before heading back to my bed with my laptop, where I am currently whiling away the minutes until it’s time for my date with a large and incredibly caloric ice cream sundae I haven’t actually earned but will ingest nonetheless.

Maybe writer’s block is a real phenomenon. Or, maybe writer’s block is what happens when writers realize they’re not miserable enough to be creative. All I know is that on days like this one, when it’s necessary for me to spend a day trapped within the confines of my quiet house taking care of chores that must be done, I should not be forced to publish anything. It’s bad enough when my dull life bores me to tears. There’s really no need to torture anyone else with my soporific tales. I don’t think my ice cream sundaes give me enough of an edge. Maybe I should find a more impressive vice?




  1. Most great artists are self-destructive alchoholics. Produce some of their best stuff while trashed (or in VanGogh’s case, lead-poisoned from eating paint.)
    Not that I’m suggesting extra vodka in the tea or anyhing…


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