B is for Block. W is for Whatever.

Cheeky. 

Anyway, I have writer's block or whatever. 

It is the kind of block that has me wanting to do the following things:

1. Do laundry

2. Vacuum under the couch

3. Apply for random jobs (because the 45 I have are not sufficient)

4. Drink craft beer

5. Paint rooms

6. Exercise obsessively like I have a disorder

7. Make my own baby food

8. Watch Brady Bunch Marathons

Photo bomb!

9. Talk on the phone to anyone who is available

10. Trim everyone's toe nails (just family members and the dog; not the toe nails of strangers)

11. Close down Yoke forever and go work at the Gap.

We went to Paris!

12. Force Nicholas to play Photo Booth with me for hours. And hours. 

I hate feeling this way. It is like a giant rock is blocking my thoughts and I cannot get them out. I feel empty and bloated, all at the same time. It is a despicable feeling. It is giving me an identity crises. It is a phase, I think. Perhaps the sign that I am avoiding writing something that is very deep and meaningful. Or that I am on the cusp of a breakthrough and maybe, just maybe, my missing identity will be found again soon.

But for now, I am off to organize the recycling by size, material and color; right after I apply to Graduate School for accounting.