No, I'm not dead.

Honest to goodness, people. How hard can it be to sit down and write? The avoidance I engage in to skirt this is really something, a mental gymnastics of sorts. They need to make Just Do It commercials for writers, maybe little Nike wristbands with inspirational sayings on them. “You can do it!” “Write well. Write now.” “Write something lest you die unpublished and hobos start pulling your spleen through your belly button.”

I save post ideas in my Iphone because it makes me feel like I’m writing something. Recently I typed something about how awful it must be to be homeless, I wouldn't survive a week..with my obsession of showering (almost) daily and hating the outdoors. Annnnnd scene. That was pretty much it.

I also made a bulleted list about the stuff I’d been up to since I last wrote, and it ended up being chock full Jack Kerouac quotes and random weight loss quick fix remedies, cucumber juice being my latest one. gag. I’m twirling my index finger and rolling my eyes as we speak. Thrilling, isn’t it?

What’s simply lovely for the neurotic is the fact that the world is a splendid, ginormous place, that there are millions of sources of content. I haven’t tried a million things, of course, but I’ve done quite a few. Tennis, softball, belly dancing, snorkeling in st. marteen? or was it st. thomas?, packing the perfect cigarette, going to dozens of movies, eating one of those visually repulsive oysters in my extra spicy mixed ceviche, finally enjoying vodka again after our love-hate relationship since my surprise Russian party. This is a rich, rich life. I just don’t feel like writing about any of it.

So I update my facebook instead. It's almost like tweeting (from what i've heard but 'funner'). Because that’s kinda like writing, but without the work.

I make up stories about people in my head. My most recent victims were a few unsuspecting people in our local neighborhood Publix. I study their mannerisms, their clothing, gait. Is that the walk of an advertising exec in Sunday Dockers or a man who just conquered the smell of human decomposition in his storage unit? I like to think of that exercise as a nutty professor’s cognitive regimen.

Maybe I should just shut up now. Or just post the list?