So what are you supposed to write about when you have nothing worth writing about?

Some people would make up some gripping fiction. Some might write poetry, letting their fingers type what their heart feels. Still others will simply not write anything, and await their muse's reawakening.

What about me? Well I, apparently, write about my refrigerator.

I noticed a couple of days ago that I was low on ice.

I confirmed that the wire shutoff thingy was free to move.

I noticed later that day that I was even lower on ice. I go through a lot of ice in a day.

I checked the icemaker and there was indeed ice in there, just waiting for the roto-doohickey to dump it into the hopper. I took a piece of ice from the hopper and placed in atop the doohickey.

The next morning, to my dismay, I saw that the ice was still there. The roto-doohickey hadn't dumped that perfectly good ice into the hopper all night long.

So yesterday I went and shelled out $129 for a new icemaker and an extra $50 or so for a new water filter since I was at the parts store anyway.

I managed to install these without drowning or electrocuting myself. This was cause for mild surprise and minor celebration.

By the time I went to bed last night, however, the icemaker hadn't filled with water. I figured that something besides the icemaker had been broken all along.

This morning there was ice in the icemaker, but the hopper didn't seem to have any new ice. I repeated my experiment from Tuesday - I put a piece of ice on top of the roto-doohickey and then I went to work.

When I got home from work, the fucking ice was still there, taunting me from the top of the doohickey.

I was back to exactly where I'd started. The thing was making ice, but it wasn't dumping it into the hopper.

But wait! There's more!

This is a side-by-side fridge. While checking the icemaker today I touched the panel that separates the freezer part from the refrigerator part.

Ouch!

The damn thing is too hot to touch!

So something is seriously wrong with my fridge, and now I'll probably have to shell out another zillion dollars to get it fixed or replaced.

Meanwhile, I have no ice. I feel like a fucking caveman or something. But not one from the Ice Age. They had plenty of ice back then, the lucky bastards.

The high point of my day yesterday was replacing the broken ice maker in my refrigerator.

Then I really pushed the envelope by replacing the water filter on the same refrigerator.

I am a wild man.

Well, the hot blondes didn't win The Amazing Race, despite my fervent rooting.

This certainly puts a damper on my plan, which consisted of:

1. Hot blondes win The Amazing Race.


2. Hot blondes use their winnings to purchase me as their sex slave.

1. Stephanie wins Survivor.


2. Stephanie uses her winnings to purchase me as her sex slave.

I found myself walking down a dirt road, one so overgrown with weeds that you could hardly tell it was ever a road at all. Only the deep ruts running into the distance betrayed its existence as anything but just another field.

Ahead of me, the road stretched to a horizon hidden in fog. I turned my head to look behind me and saw the same visage. I was on a road between two nowheres.

How did I end up here?

Where did I come from?

Where was I going?

I kept walking. There was nothing else to do.

Eventually, I came upon a fence that slanted in from the right and then turned to parallel the road. Just a picket fence, once gleaming white perhaps but now the faded gray of neglect, the fence accompanied me on my journey. The fence became my companion as I walked the road. Its gaps and its raggedness and its general state of disrepair, these all gave it character, gave it a personality that resonated within me somehow.

I knew that the fence meant something. The fence was important.

I continued to walk, and I continued to wonder.

(to be, um, continued)

Took a long nap after work tonight, from 6:30 until 11:30. I'd planned to sleep for a full eight hours but my cats would have none of that nonsense. They decided to hold an impromptu game of seek and destroy the sheet monster.

The sheet monster of course being by feet, my knees, hands, my groin, or whatever unfortunate part of me happened to be making a lump in the sheet at any particular moment.

My lightest cat, Buddy, weighs seventeen pounds. Happy weighs twenty pounds. Nugget is made of some material so dense that he carries his own gravitational field around with him, and any attempt to weigh him is therefore useless.

So now it's almost 1:00. I've watched the rest of the Survivor reunion show and I'm drinking a yummy Rogue Imperial Stout (62) in an attempt to fuel my creative fires.

I don't think I have any creative fires left to fuel. I've been feeling completely wrung out for the past couple of days. Even when I try to stir the passions within me, I get nothing. I spent a good (just right, not obsessive at all) amount of time yesterday staring at a picture that, at one time, would never fail to inspire me to write something halfway decent.

But yesterday all it inspired me to do was feel like an idiot for wasting a year of my life.

I was talking with CoffeeDude the other night about my 'blog. He'd asked if I was still writing in it. I said of course, but it's become really boring lately. The things that I used to write about are no longer relevant, and all that's left are pretty bland topics. Then, when something interesting does happen, this fucking discretion thing kicks in and so I don't give the subject all of the attention it deserves.

But I suppose, like all other slumps, this too shall pass. Eventually.

(response to message)

Oh yeah? Prove it. What's her name?

I'm totally bored and emotionally wrung-out today. I tried to write a stupid entry but my UPS is broken and it kept shutting my computer off. Rather than attempt for a fourth time to write my stupid entry, I'll post this entry fragment that I found on my computer desktop today. This was to have been the end of another entry. For some reason I didn't post this part before.

But wait, there's more!

People in the know tell me that it's understandable that I'm stressed right now. Many of these people are the same ones that have been telling me for months that I wasn't making any sense. Now all of a sudden it's okay? Now all of a sudden you understand? This pisses me off. Don't pretend to understand when you clearly don't. Don't try to make me feel better when your only incentive is to feel more comfortable around me. If you don't feel comfortable around me, then kindly stay the fuck away.

I am not your doll that you can dress up and pose and show off to your friends.