I Have Nothing Good To Say

I have nothing good to write about. I really don't. I can't think of a thing. Nothing. No.thing.

Sure, I've come up with some ideas. I thought perhaps I would post a letter that I had written to a friend. It was one of those thoughtful letters. It was even fairly well written. And then I decided not to post it for various reasons. But that was the best idea I've come up with in days. Days, people.

Then I thought I could write about how my kids and their friends were driving me crazy jumping on those plastic bubbles you get in packages. It was driving me so insane that I almost died, or killed them, or both, but instead I left the room with some tea and the latest Real Simple magazine. But I knew that post wouldn't garner me any Pulitzers or anything.

Then I thought perhaps I would write about how so many of the things in my home are falling apart or dying. Things that I should be taking care of---like the cutting boards and the houseplants. But I knew that would bore my readers to tears.

And then I thought I would bounce off of Jen M's comments about how women are so self-deprecating that it's nauseating. And I would rant about how some women don't like Hillary because of this very thing---that she's not self-deprecating enough. She's too confident. Like a man. She doesn't stand up at a podium, like a woman, and say, "Really, you should just vote for Obama. Basically, we have the same positions on the issues anyway. So, pick him. Not me. I wouldn't be that good at it anyway." But then I felt like I wasn't being articulate enough. Or pissed off enough. I write best when I'm pissed.

So, that's it. There's just nothing to write about. I can't think of a damned thing. Is that sad or what?