I'm constipated.

In a literary sense.

Not from a lack of ideas to blog about, but more because I have a veritable dearth of things to talk about and I am unable to work it out.

Has anyone some Mental Metamucil?

It is quite possible that my present predicament is more a lack of time than a lack of inspiration. Some thoughts require mental space to foment.

Love that word. Foment. It means: Agitate; try to stir up public opinion. It also means to bathe in warm water or with lotions which seems to be a bit of a weird combination of defnitions, but who am I to argue with the Princeton dictionary.

So, we either agitate with our words or take folks to the spa? Hm.

In closing, which means something since I am neither a pastor nor a politician, let me leave you wtih this.

It is not always wise to pour out your proverbial broken heart for the world to see. The world is neither kind nor sympathetic to such. If you must pour out your broken heart, do so with eloquence and proper spelling. This lends a great deal of validation to your predicament and at least makes for a less painful read.

Lest I sound remotely bitchy, let me add this.

Much of the pain I have caused myself has been as the result of over-exposing things intended to be hidden and a defiant white knuckled dependence on those things which should be exposed.

There is One who will listen and counsel regardless of the circumstance or lack of coherent presentation. Speak to Him alone first. Then ask Him what to write. And when. And where.

He'll show you how.