News of my death has been greatly exaggerated, hence the title of this blog entry.
I have not blogged in more than two weeks. Okay, it may be three weeks now. Well, I have tried and tried and tried to write my next post. And I have failed on all of my attempts. And then it occurred to me why I can't write right now: I have writer's block (how about that, using the same sounding word so close to one another; another sign of writer's block, perhaps).
And I sort of feel bad because I am writing to say that I am not dead – I have always hated reading those posts. Plus, Farah Fawcett died between my last two posts. So did Michael Jackson. So you see, lots of people have died recently, so you would be totally correct in assuming that I have died as well. Though I don't have Farrah's famous nipples or Michael's famous dance moves. I mean, really, how many of us did not want Farrah's hair or to be able to dance like Michael Jackson. I can remember practicing to moon walk for weeks. If I was a productive member of society at the time, I would have been in an office, doing the moon walk, I am sure.
Oh, but back to talking about me. I have writer's block and I am not dead.
I wrote a Twitter message – I mean, even with writer's block, I can type out 140 characters.
Then I read one of the previous paragraphs – I normally just type out stuff and don't even read it, but with writer's block, the process changes. Anyway, I talk about Farah's famous . . . and Michael's famous . . . . What a lack of a real adjective. I mean, of course, if we know about it, you and me, you on the other side of the world, perhaps, me in Georgia. That would sort of define famous.
Part of me just wants to delete this message – like I did the last two messages, but you see, I have writer's block and I am not dead, so I need to place something out there. Having writer's block sort of sucks. I mean, I have been known to write about any damn thing that pops into my head, but this does not really work right now. I can't decide if I have nothing in my mind right now, or that my filter is just working on overdrive. I have not a clue.
Me, I want red hair. I don't have the complexion or the guts to dye my hair red, but I want red hair. I think hair color should be sold with other helpful items, like something that would give me freckles as well.
I was watching a YouTube video, and instead of saying, "Wow, I like that song or voice," I am thinking I would kill for that hair. I can't sing, and so I sometimes fantasize about being able to sing. Or having a magic lasso would also be so cool. Can you imagine red-headed Leesa walking in a car dealership with a magic lasso, asking about the real gas mileage of the cars on the lot? Of going in a GM dealership and asking what kind of car they drive. "Hey, you get employee pricing on your cars, and you drive a Toyota. Don't tell me it is your wife's car. I have a magic lasso."
I have not brought myself to read the comments on my blog either. Well, I read Grant's comment. But that was weeks ago, and I started writing about it, but you see I have writer's block. I guess I should go to Walgreens and see if I can find something to cure my writer's block. I mean, there are drug companies that sell herbs to cure all sorts of things. Hell, they sell mushrooms to cure cancer. Why can't some company deceive us about a cure for writer's block, too? I mean, writer's block is mental, right? I mean, how hard is it to add a few herbs to witch hazel, and sell it as writer's block remover? That's all I ask. Oh, and to have red hair, a superhero lasso, and not to be dead.