Screaming Secret Writer

I have tried over the years to write a blog but I’ve been unsuccessful and it bugs me. See, inside of me is a writer screaming all these ideas, but unfortunately the screaming only happens in the car while I’m driving. Then what happens when I get home? Blankness, pure blankness. For the life of me, I cannot remember one witty line, and I know they were witty because I was cracking up in the car. I was brilliant and clever, and full of insightful knowledge. When I get home, all I can think about is “is there pudding in the fridge?” Most times I guess I’m so glad to be in the door, my sanctuary from the mean outside world that I think my brain just dumps. So right now, I really have nothing to say. Nothing about politics, my animals, work, my family…nothing…nadda…zilch. I guess I’ll go to bed. But I will guarantee in the morning I’m going to be absolutely fabulous—until I get to work and sit in front of my computer.