Bare-Knuckle Boxing and Writers Block

What is worse (for a writer) then writers block? A mangled hand. Even worse then that? Having both former and latter.

It appears that the creative-outlet of alcohol is also a destructive one, and rather stupid at that. Despite winning by swinging my hand without any hesitancy/reserve into the side of my friends skull, he got out of it with a decent lump and a day-stretch headache. I, now, have a hand the size of a textbook.

But oh well. I can still write, just a pinch more slowly.

But wait, I can't write. At all. An entire week of staring at blank documents pondering, and only pondering.

The rather important assignment that is due today? Besides beating feet and not making it to class, the thing is not done. In fact, it isn't even begun because after writing a personal tale I realized it wasn't a personal narrative, more like a creative auto-biographical account.
I didn't know there was a difference, but yes, there is.

This blog alone has had me pondering for three days. I'm aware that the extra-credit aspect of this thing is bi-daily/class, and that I am possibly blowing it by not updating this thing as of recent. Still, writers block wouldn't even allow me to type on this social-outlet for fear that there was indeed nothing to type.

And that's an interesting thing with writers block. It isn't that one gains writers block by having nothing to write. I have tons to write, a novel project healthily streaming, an endless river of short-story ideas to begin and both edit, and, of course, the many, many peices of garbage poetry I write. Still, though, I can't write.
Writers block is more like this dream-catcher, but not one of the finely woven ones you see hanging on people's rear-wheel mirrors or atop the shade beside their bed. No, this one is more like a thorn, just one gigantic thorn that is sticking out of the side of your head that is literally slicked with the many doubtful words that have been delivered to you throughout life, the ones such as, "You write? Neat, that's pretty cool. But what is it you're trying to do with life?". Tossers, basically, sprout from the sides of this gigantic thorn and shout indecent, ambition crushing tales at you, all the while a med-school flag waves softly from it's point.
Terrible, terrible, terrible is what writers block is.

So there isn't much to this blog other than a confession that I am not going to be in class today. Seeing as this is creative writing, I hope you can understand the manic-reality that every writer endures when they get an accidental whiff of the Block. Perhaps after the next upcoming four hours that I have assigned to endlessly writing on a blank document, I will cure this damn disease and manage to type up the Narrative.

The crow that ate my leg offered no delay and set at once upon my arm
Tearing at it dastardly with the subtle truth of murder lying in this harm.
Stretching my hand, I fetched him and bit, digging my jaws deep into his pits
And chewed and chewed, until I found inside his stomach my flesh, ripped to bits.
I ate that as well and hoped that it would peg
Itself upon the stump, where once rested my leg.

This is what happens when you have writers block. Beautifully terrible poetry like this. Oh well. Perhaps you can sympathize and delay axing my grade? I am trying to write, but, as you can see, it's just bad writing.