It's been a week and a half since my last article posting. I've been living off commenting, but that's getting tired. It's blog or perish.

        I think I know what is happening. I want to get personal, spill my guts, whimper, whine and bleed all over the monitor. But that's not my style. So, I'm holding back. As a result, my subconscious is refusing to give anything else. Mental constipation, without a jar of Mental-mucil in sight.

        The solution is obvious. Start puking my sorry, pathetic life all over the blogsite. I try to fool myself. "I'll just write them without posting them," I think. Somewhere in the back of my head I hear my subconscious clucking disapprovingly. Guess that's not going to fly.

        The evil subconscious is holding my articles hostage. Like Mel Gibson in Ransom, I'm not too inclined to give in to the demands. It's a whole new form of "I Can't Get The Ideas Out."

        This brain needs an enema. When will someone invent Writer-Rooter™? "Call Writer-Rooter, that's the name, and away go troubles from the brain. Writer-Rooter!"

        (Okay, that's one. Let out another, you tight sphinctered....)