So here I sit. Christmas is over, for all intents and purposes, and I promised to return to the blogosphere. But here I sit. There are stories. There are laughs. There are all kinds of things to tell you about.
But here I sit.

I realize now that I could never be a real writer. Oh sure, there are a million instances of writers hitting a slump, getting a case of good old writer’s block. But those stories are interesting. They reflect the true writer’s frustration at his inability to commit his ideas to the printed page. They reflect the epic battle pitting the impending deadline against the writer’s blank stare. Desperation, depression. Finding solace in a bottle of sour mash. Then writing The Novel. Inspired by and drawn from the very depths of the writer’s despair.

But that only happens to real writers. Me? Not so much. Mine is the result of a completely different conflict.

Too much cheesecake.

Yep. The holiday food. Everywhere you turn, there’s holiday food. “Here, try these fat balls…Aunt Mathilda’s famous grease dip…can I drizzle a little more hot fudge over your entire meal? Eat. Eat!”

Blech. Too much. Way too much. I’ve ingested more sugar than a human being has the ability to process. My body is quite capable of dealing with the daily doses of chocolate that it has come to be dependent on. But it’s not used to the buttloads of sugar that have found their way into my system. So I’m a sugar slug. I have no energy. The sugar high of the past few days is now giving way to the ‘low’ that follows.

So here I sit. But no more. I’m not going to sit and stare any longer. It’s time to take some real action. Do something really productive.

I’m going to take a nap.

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