This has been a long time coming, but now that it is officially December, it’s safe to say I majorly failed NaBloPoMo.

Sorry, blogging gods.

I’ve been feeling lukewarm, at best, toward blogging for awhile. Some of this is indeed due to personal issues. Blogging has gotten to be a burden, almost. It’s not that I don’t enjoy it. It’s just I’m somewhat sick of defending it. I was nearly anonymous on here, I didn’t use my full name, left out several identifying details and yet still got “discovered” in ways I didn’t want to be… long story.

Also, I’ve almost run out of stories to tell. My life isn’t as interesting anymore, spending so much time commuting and being boring. The problem with me, specifically, my blog, according to my Ask and Ye Shall Receive review, is that I am not having nearly enough sex or boozing it up quite enough. There you go: boring. I have plenty of stories, just none of them my own, or any I am willing to give up here. And if it’s not my story, it’s not my story to tell here.

I’m not retiring, just complaining that I feel so lame and grown-up right now. I go visit school, I am zonked by midnight. I try to be less stick-in-the-mud, or Mom-ish, as my friends have taken to calling me, but I don’t know how. I want to write more. I am just unsure as to what quite yet. And it’s not like I’m not living; it just feels as though nothing is unique anymore, nothing is worthy. It’s gotten kind of, dare I say, blah. Kind of black and white, few other ideas mixed in between.

This is not an apology for being slightly muted, more of a, “goddamnit, i’m so fucking sick of my fucking writer’s block.”

Goddamnit. I’m so fucking sick of my fucking writer’s block.