BufBloPoFo 09 DaySeven

You get a freebie for Day 7. It’s like the center square of your BufBloPoFo bingo card where you get to use those creative participant brains of yours and come up with your own topic. And hey, if I like it, I’ll use it for everyone in week two...

How many times am I told I can write about anything at all, and yet find myself in the frustrating position of having nothing creative to say? It's much like a broken pinata full of candy falling in front of a diabetic child. Useless. This is the quandary I find myself in late this afternoon.

It's been a hellish week, professionally speaking, and I have taken a few hits: to my time, my ego, my ability to blog and update my FaceBook status (the horror!). Don't get me wrong. I come to work to work. But like everything else in my life, I tend to produce on "10" and typically do find myself with a spare moment or two to waste. Not so much this week. I think what really has sapped my energy is the unfortunate and unfair dressing down I and my teammates received, publicly yesterday afternoon. Actual screaming was involved. I will not bore you with the details, because I am already bored myself.

I had every good intention of going home last night for a workout. Instead, I found myself nursing a 24 oz. can of Miller Lite in the train station bar, alone after my pal Mark left go home. Folks, if there is any image more pathetic than this, please tell me. Normally, I find my own bouts of solo intoxication oddly refreshing (see Hotlanta posts from early February), but this time it appears I was intent on sinking further into my own wallowing, rather than celebrating my fabulousness. When I got home, I figured since I had already had the equivalent of two beers, why stop there? I chased down my train station ale with 3.5 shots of Jose Cuervo. For some reason that only God knows, I often follow these mini binges with a determination to shave my legs. Seriously, I have done this quite a few times over the years. Apparently, I need intermittent reminders that alcohol + razors = blood. Two minutes into my nice warm bath, I nearly required a transfusion, and realized I need better coping mechanisms.

So there you go Garvey, I guess my topic for the day, like any episode of Seinfeld, is nothing. Or since I am literary-minded, perhaps I will deem it stream of consciousness in the vein of William Faulkner.