Writer's Block

Writers block. Again.

If you were smarter, you’d still be writing.
If you were more imaginative, you’d still be storytelling.
If you were attractive, you wouldn’t be sitting home alone, trying desperately to write.
If you weren’t such a loser, you would have gotten that promotion and gone drinking with the boys.
If you weren’t such an alcoholic, you wouldn’t be sitting alone, at a typewriter with a bottle of gin in your lap.
If you were a better man, she’d still be here.
If you weren’t such an asshole, you’d have children running around to bring you out of your slump.
If you had been better in bed, she wouldn’t have fucked him.
If you had been worth a shit, you’d have a job where you mattered.
If you weren’t such a god damn emotional-fucking-mess, you wouldn’t be sitting here crying at a fucking typewriter.
If you weren’t such a fucking coward, you’d stop thinking about it and just get it the fuck over and kill yourself already.

Writers block is a bitch.

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