writer's block

i can imagine myself never winning the World Series of Poker.
i can imagine myself never really being good at poker in the first place.

i say this because i'm not good at the game. i'm not good at holding back information. i'm not good at appearing strong and contented. i'm not good at being so distracted that i forget to use the bathroom sometimes.

but i know i'm good at some things. and this just isn't one of them. but i think she is good at this thing. for a variety of reasons. and i'm happy for her.

but i was born to live my life with my heart beating and bleeding right there on the surface. and all i can realistically hope for is that out of this experience i write a song that i can sell to ashlee simpson and get *paid*.

so, i entitled this post 'writer's block' because lately it seems the only thing i have to write about is my love lorn moments of confusion, pain, torment and pining.... when there is so much more going on in my life that i'm not including here. it just seems a waste. granted, there's a book about all the crap you've read... it just needs to be compiled and fleshed out a little. but what concerns me is the shelf of books that are being ignored because they don't have the same visceral, gut-wrenching drama of the book of D.
so there it is: smile right now, D. know you've got that last trump card (and if i were a good writer, i'd use a poker analogy, instead of a eucker reference, because that is what started the post) and now you know i know that you have it. so bask in your moment of glory. you've got me pinned. just mount me and put me in a case.

see eric? i told you.