Man, I had this gorgeous and heart-wrenching diary entry planned for last night. I was going to delve deep into my psyche and reveal all that I've been yearning for over the past twenty-one years of my life. You would read it and feel your heart swell with emotion as I finally completed my long and arduous journey of self-discovery.

But, alas, the servers were being moved and that entry will never see the light of day. Bummer.

OK, I kid. I was actually going to write about my first ever experience with waxing and how it is so not a big deal. Pain? Pssh. I've felt more pain from a mosquito bite.

Anyway, this morning Howie got out of his pen and was following around the chickens. It was kinda odd, actually. The big heavy door to his pen had fallen down like this great force had pushed it over. Ah, love. It knows no boundaries.

When I went to go wrangle him back into his pen, he was standing besides the chicken roost, gazing adoringly at Dottie who had flown to the very top. He was making these soft quacks like "Hey, baby. I know how to treat you right. Come to Howie." Dottie, on the other hand, had this look of total and utter disgust on her face. Having a chicken look at you contemptuously is a very shaming experience, but Howie was not fazed.

My duck is so fucking cool.

So, yeah. It's been crazy hot here the past few days and it's not even technically spring, yet. I think I hear thunder underneath all the war planes flying over my house and the sky is black to the east. I just went outside to look at my rose bushes and both of them have dozens of unopened blossoms. This makes me happy. Those rose bushes are probably the only plant I've successfully grown and they're fucking huge. Granted, they're all over the place and parts have uncultivated, but that just makes it cooler.

All you need to grow roses is love. And massive amounts of rabbit shit.

Last night, I realized that I've only written one story in the past two years. And it sucked. I'm not just being modest when I say that, either. It was a black hole of words.

So I realized I had only written one story, it sucked, and I kind of freaked out. I know I write a lot (in here and in my paper journals), I've started countless stories and then there was The Novel a year and a half ago, but either it's non-fiction or incomplete. There have been no completed works of fiction in almost a year and a half.

I spent the first part of my break searching for a book of writing prompts, figuring maybe I just needed a little charge. I found nothing except this one book called Write Your Heart Out, which is really just about the process, how to nurture it and inspiration. No "Day Three- Write about the color blue." Whatever. It's actually a kinda good book.

When I got back to the breakroom, I called Jerkface. Why? Well, the boy has been the recipient of every single story I've written in the past five years and he actually talks to me about writing. And he's not afraid to tell me when to shut the fuck up and just write.

I explained to him what I had realized and my search for a book of prompts. He asked why I needed one. I said well, I don't know what to write about and maybe it would help. Then I gave him an example of a prompt and he said, "You don't need that book. You just came up with that, didn't you?" He went on, made sense, made me feel better and I told him "I hate you."

Fucking jerk. Ruining my self-pity parade. Oh, what the hell am I saying? I adore the bastard.

Anyway, I'm going to start a story tonight using the idea I came up with last night and, for once, fucking finish it. I don't care if I'm still typing when the sun comes up. I need completion.

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