by Zachary Belins

Created on: April 20, 2009

Descended from a long line of dissenters and treasonous malcontents, I have found that when I touch the keyboard or pick up pen and paper with the intent to compose the English language to my liking, nothing but the most liberal, left-wing, and revolutionary prose is created.

OK, let me rephrase that.

Descended from a long line of pathological liars and conmen, there can be no doubt that whenever I write, I always invent the most artificial, bogus, and phony text.

Hmm, that's not it either. Let me try a few more times.

My parents both have ADHD, so therefore I can't seem to focu

Myspacebarisbroken.

My fingers are broken.

My toes are broken.

There is a distinct possibility that my brain is broken.

The bird beside me is calling to the bird outside, and it doesn't help my lack of focu

It's raining outside, and nobody can write while it's raining.

I have homework that I'm busy not doing because I'm busy not writing.

I'm using my hard drive as a puck in field hockey.

The planets aren't aligned.

The planets are aligned and it's freaking me out.

The voices in my head tell me not to write.

The voices in my wife's head are telling her to tell me not to write.

OK, I lied. I don't have a wife. But if I did, that would so totally be what's keeping me from writing.

I have an essay due tomorrow in English, but I'm trying to fail the class.

The atmosphere in this room is too oppressive.

Space aliens told me that if I ever become an accomplished writer, they would kidnap me to work on their planet (they all are notably lacking in the English composition department).

I have found myself in an existential quandary in which the meaning of my life is being questioned. I cannot commit myself to write as my own mortality has made this endeavor fruitless in the long-run. Seeing everything from the Big Picture defeats my most noble purpose to impart linguistic meaning to the masses of starving, truth-seeking individuals and ragamuffins, since they're all dead sooner or later anyways.

None of those quite hit the nail on the head, though. I just can't place my finger on it

As I try to compose a literary masterpiece, small children are starving all over the world. My conscience cannot bear such a social injustice, so it compels me to contemplate how I could help them by not writing.

Sadly, the only logical reason I can arrive at is that my being descended from procrastinators, exaggerators, and a general mix of people who enjoy to indulge in hyperbole has led me to be unable to do little more than jot down reasons of why I can't write anything meaningful.

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