After a weekend best described as “whirlwind,” wherein I brushed up against so many of my erstwhile chums that I quite nearly overdosed on nostalgia, life seems to have taken a turn for the calm. The relaxed. The decidedly sedentary. It has also grown remarkably difficult to write about.
How do I entertain the reader with tales of reading a big stack of graphic novels? Or the story of watching Michigan State lose a basketball game? Or a vignette about working on my endless map while marathoning through the Daniel Craig James Bond films? Vaguely, like a distant breeze brushing through the upper branches of a lone pine, I sense that these are topics I could write about – if I were clever. 10 Ways to Survive a Devastating Sports Loss. An essay on the new Bond vs. old Bond. What it’s like to read until your eyes hurt. These aren’t as interesting topics as, say, celebrity liposuction or raging against politics, but they’re still something. More than a blank page, at least.
But I feel like an deflated balloon, all of the interesting sucked out of me by a weekend of magnificent revelry. I spent all my stored up wit to make cheeky jokes, smarmy references, and wry winks. All I have left are a handful of words and I’ve damn near used them all today. Esophagus. Amalgam. Mortuary. There, that’s the last of them. I’m a tired old thing and you’ll pardon me, I hope, if I haven’t an interesting thing to say for the next few days.
Oh, except I’m traveling to Savannah, Georgia tomorrow for work. So there will be that.