As I sit, cross legged on my bed, my hair cascades across my puzzled face like Cousin It. I drum my fingers as ideas slowly plod their way across the surface of my mind, but nothing’s phenomenally inspirational. Last year, ideas would’ve flown freely, not fearful of the far away corners of my skull. Though today, my grand ideas have embarked on a more opulent journey of their own, leaving behind only glimpses of creativity. At the moment, my imagination is stunted, creating gaping black holes of wordless fluff. I was, in short, a little disappointed that my flow of inspiration seems to be rotting and buried six feet under. Maybe it’s difficult, though it shouldn’t be, to get past the unforgiving writer’s block that builds the harder you try. I’m finding that this mental block is a just a growing itch, so I’m ending this little shindig right here.