Writer's Blockade
OR
A Visual Guide To Alan's Room
The world is full of excuses, and the bullshit per unit (BPU) varies from person to person. Today, I present to you, an excuse so high in BPU that it could power an automobile.
"Writer's block" has, by way of writers controlling nearly every form of non-interactive consumable entertainment, become a term that nearly everyone recognizes. Woody Allen gets writer's block. Hunter S. Thompson got writer's block. And I, Alan Orlanski, have occasionally been known to not have anything to say.
But there are other forms of writer's block aside from the well-known kind; typically, we think of it as a lack of inspiration or a marked dissatisfaction with the fruits of our labor, but the true definition of writer's block is, simply : A thing, or collection of things, which delay or prevent the creative process.
I present to you, my writer's blockade :
Yes, this is what happens when a procrastinator with an oversized wardrobe moves back into the room of his childhood; things get dangerous.
Our first stop is The Pile:
The Pile was born just last night. My mother forced me to empty all of my belongings out of my car, so I put everything on my bed and slept in another room. Upon learning this, she forced me to clear off my bed so I could sleep on it; so, around 4 AM last night, I pushed everything off of the bed and onto the floor.
But why so dangerous? Well, I own a pack of sewing needles--from when I sewed stars onto the sides of my denim flares--and the pack managed to open and spill when I pushed The Pile off of my bed. I found two needles on the floor, but it was a twenty-pack. God forbid I forget this and take a barefoot step.
What's more, I've got Alfonzo's guitar to deal with. He didn't have enough room for it in his sardine ca--I mean, station wagon, so he asked me and Belinda to take it home for him. However, the strings are wound extra tight, such that the E-string popped off and lashed my arm when I was moving it into the house. No surprise that Alfonzo's guitar is high-strung, but I feel like even a subtle movement might cause me to lose a leg.
Climbing over the bed, we come to The Sac:
The danger of The Sac is two-fold, the first of which is merely a benign annoyance; static electricity. The bag is filled with a sort of low-grade memory foam. The foam tends to cluster when left unfettered, and I am occasionally required to physically pull clumps of it apart to keep The Sac comfortable. But all this foam rubbing about inside a giant linen bag makes a hell of a lot of static electricity, to the extent that if I jump on the bag with the lights off, the room is momentarily lit.
The second, and far more formidable danger of The Sac is it's legacy. Those of you who frequent St. Louis malls, the internet, or college dormitories might be familiar with the brand name "LoveSac" (for purely educational purposes, I have provided a link). Well, if you looked at the prices then you'll understand what I mean when I say that LoveSacs are the Beemers of bean-bag furniture; one might even call them Beaners. What all you consumers should know is, if you pay $250-$400 for a LoveSac, you are buying a $50 piece of furniture with an expensive name. Which brings me back to The Sac.
The Sac is not a LoveSac. The Sac is a Siesta Sac (which makes it a Beaner in its own way). It was a gift from Maggie, who told me not to worry about how she obtained such an overpriced piece of furniture. Over the course of the semester and with the help of Maggie's good friend, Jack, she revealed The Sac's grisly origin:
Some dude died on it, and nobody knows why. Which means, of course, that coming into contact with The Sac puts me at risk of both death and haunting.
You may have noticed, in the first picture of the Writer's Blockade, a happy iMac in the top-right corner of the image. This iMac, though now 5 years old, is equipped with wireless internet and all the software required to make a Blogger post. However, there's a bit of a snag :
In case you can't tell from the picture, it's a car battery, alligator clipped to a coathanger, hooked onto the neck of the computer. I can't even begin to explain how such a monstrously complicated danger arose organically from the mess in my room.
Of course, I'm not completely naive regarding electricity and things of that sort. If my intuition serves me well, then I don't think I could actually get shocked unless I touch the coathanger, which I could avoid with only a little forethought. However, my slight familiarity with electrical currents is not something I'm willing to bet my life on.
Finally, all the way over on the desk, sweet salvation it's my computer.
But BEWARE, for before it sits the Be-wigged Mannequin Head of Doom. She is a simple lass to outwit, but no matter what she may whisper into your weary ears, do not look her in the eyes.
So this, my patient readers, is what I'm up against. Until I get this mess cleaned up, I'll have to traverse this plane of woe, misery, and various forms of electricity to write for you.
So you'd better appreciate it.
-Alan
A Visual Guide To Alan's Room
The world is full of excuses, and the bullshit per unit (BPU) varies from person to person. Today, I present to you, an excuse so high in BPU that it could power an automobile.
"Writer's block" has, by way of writers controlling nearly every form of non-interactive consumable entertainment, become a term that nearly everyone recognizes. Woody Allen gets writer's block. Hunter S. Thompson got writer's block. And I, Alan Orlanski, have occasionally been known to not have anything to say.
But there are other forms of writer's block aside from the well-known kind; typically, we think of it as a lack of inspiration or a marked dissatisfaction with the fruits of our labor, but the true definition of writer's block is, simply : A thing, or collection of things, which delay or prevent the creative process.
I present to you, my writer's blockade :
Yes, this is what happens when a procrastinator with an oversized wardrobe moves back into the room of his childhood; things get dangerous.
Our first stop is The Pile:
The Pile was born just last night. My mother forced me to empty all of my belongings out of my car, so I put everything on my bed and slept in another room. Upon learning this, she forced me to clear off my bed so I could sleep on it; so, around 4 AM last night, I pushed everything off of the bed and onto the floor.
But why so dangerous? Well, I own a pack of sewing needles--from when I sewed stars onto the sides of my denim flares--and the pack managed to open and spill when I pushed The Pile off of my bed. I found two needles on the floor, but it was a twenty-pack. God forbid I forget this and take a barefoot step.
What's more, I've got Alfonzo's guitar to deal with. He didn't have enough room for it in his sardine ca--I mean, station wagon, so he asked me and Belinda to take it home for him. However, the strings are wound extra tight, such that the E-string popped off and lashed my arm when I was moving it into the house. No surprise that Alfonzo's guitar is high-strung, but I feel like even a subtle movement might cause me to lose a leg.
Climbing over the bed, we come to The Sac:
The danger of The Sac is two-fold, the first of which is merely a benign annoyance; static electricity. The bag is filled with a sort of low-grade memory foam. The foam tends to cluster when left unfettered, and I am occasionally required to physically pull clumps of it apart to keep The Sac comfortable. But all this foam rubbing about inside a giant linen bag makes a hell of a lot of static electricity, to the extent that if I jump on the bag with the lights off, the room is momentarily lit.
The second, and far more formidable danger of The Sac is it's legacy. Those of you who frequent St. Louis malls, the internet, or college dormitories might be familiar with the brand name "LoveSac" (for purely educational purposes, I have provided a link). Well, if you looked at the prices then you'll understand what I mean when I say that LoveSacs are the Beemers of bean-bag furniture; one might even call them Beaners. What all you consumers should know is, if you pay $250-$400 for a LoveSac, you are buying a $50 piece of furniture with an expensive name. Which brings me back to The Sac.
The Sac is not a LoveSac. The Sac is a Siesta Sac (which makes it a Beaner in its own way). It was a gift from Maggie, who told me not to worry about how she obtained such an overpriced piece of furniture. Over the course of the semester and with the help of Maggie's good friend, Jack, she revealed The Sac's grisly origin:
Some dude died on it, and nobody knows why. Which means, of course, that coming into contact with The Sac puts me at risk of both death and haunting.
You may have noticed, in the first picture of the Writer's Blockade, a happy iMac in the top-right corner of the image. This iMac, though now 5 years old, is equipped with wireless internet and all the software required to make a Blogger post. However, there's a bit of a snag :
In case you can't tell from the picture, it's a car battery, alligator clipped to a coathanger, hooked onto the neck of the computer. I can't even begin to explain how such a monstrously complicated danger arose organically from the mess in my room.
Of course, I'm not completely naive regarding electricity and things of that sort. If my intuition serves me well, then I don't think I could actually get shocked unless I touch the coathanger, which I could avoid with only a little forethought. However, my slight familiarity with electrical currents is not something I'm willing to bet my life on.
Finally, all the way over on the desk, sweet salvation it's my computer.
But BEWARE, for before it sits the Be-wigged Mannequin Head of Doom. She is a simple lass to outwit, but no matter what she may whisper into your weary ears, do not look her in the eyes.
So this, my patient readers, is what I'm up against. Until I get this mess cleaned up, I'll have to traverse this plane of woe, misery, and various forms of electricity to write for you.
So you'd better appreciate it.
-Alan
posted by Alan Orlanski at 2:29 PM
1 Comments:
damn, hun, that's just plain scary...
the problem where I live is that if a mess like that sat around for more than a day or so, cleaning would then mean risking spider bites (or at least the constant fear of being bitten as the little buggers run off to hide before you can squish them).
this is true
and not my idea of a happy situation...
...just thought I'd share
^_^
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