If only I was physically constipated.

I have this really big issue that I need to blog about except for everytime that I sit down to do just that I can't ever get it out. I write some funny stuff and then it just stops mid-way through the story. The funniness (Is that a word?) just stops.

I'm a completely visual person and when I write I normally visualize myself opening my mouth and the evidence/story/words come purging forth from my system. Now I open my mouth but nothing comes out. It's like I'm a bad bulimic. I'm ready to purge but totally forgot to binge; I've pulled the trigger but forgot to load the gun. I usually have exactly zero problems having explosive emotional diarrhea in which everything that I'm feeling or experiencing presents itself. But recently I've been stumped, or stopped up rather.

Think about it; I've been reduced to poo metaphors.

Speaking of poo metaphors and imagery, have you ever read 'Love in the Time of Cholera' by Gabriel Garcia Marquez? Seeing as how Cholera is a totally gross disease dealing with the malfeasance of one's gastrointestinal tract, the book essentially reads as a couple of fuck sessions between a couple of shit sessions. Actually for a dude with some serious health issues he gets around pretty well. Mostly I figure Marquez is trying to juxtapose his diarrhea with his emotional stolidity. He can never let himself be emotionally fluid so his bowels pick up the slack; when he's in the midst of gastrointestinal duress he is incapable of expressing himself emotionally.

Or Marquez is telling you to avoid drinking the water when travelling abroad.

The point of all this really is just that I'm stuck. I guess whenever it is that I reach some subconcious accord with my issue then I'll be able to write about it. At least if I was physically constipated I could fix that with some apple juice and dulcolax.