Wherein Nothing is Actually Said

My brain is empty today. That happens a lot, actually. It’s not that I don’t want to write a blog post (or start a conversation, or write a story). It’s just that there’s nothing going on upstairs. And not for lack of trying. I’ve probably been sitting here for twenty minutes struggling to come up with an idea.

It’s snowing like crazy outside. Autumn, autumn, autumn, then BOOM, it’s winter. I suppose I could write something about that, but what? “Hey, look at that snow. That is some snow out there, I tell you what.” See? I’ve now exhausted the full extent of my analysis RE: the snow.

Now I’m writing about having nothing to write about and I still can’t think of anything. We are scraping the bottom of the barrel. Metaphorically speaking.

I don’t have any barrels.



Let’s try this again tomorrow, shall we?

6 responses to “Wherein Nothing is Actually Said

  1. Ooh write about how the eventual heat death of the universe will come about after the last positron and electron spin around each other in a final glorious dance for tens of billions of years and finally collide, annihilate and release the last of the free energy left in the universe!

    Or more about snow I guess. Your choice.

  2. Well, at least you resisted one common solution to this dilemma: “Hey, I know, I’ll take a picture of the snow! Maybe several pictures of the snow! You know, I could do a whole album of snow pictures…”


  3. Baa. Fear the sheep of terror and awesomeness that is me. I am a sheep. Baa. Baaaaa. Thus is the rambling of a hungry Alex.

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