Sometimes it just doesn't come out. It's like the tap has run dry, and the river of creativity and ideas has disappeared and all that is left is a canyon of self-loathing and doubt.
A notification popped up, so I clicked on it. "You suck," it said in bold, capital letters. Another one flew in, this time it says, "And everyone knows it."
Why this constant barrage of abuse? Just because I have forgotten how to write? Because I have used up all of my funny? Because this is the end of it all, I had a good run for 11 months, but that is all there is.
It's a week before my period, and The Doom has set down upon me. Some women cry more. Some women bloat and treat themselves to their favourite snacks, or start cathartic fights with their partners. Mine comes in the form of self-doubt. Loathing. Sheer panic and depression. I get anxious. I have trouble writing because everything I write is simply not good enough. I want to drown myself in a bottle of wine and sleep it off, but my day job doesn't allow for it. Not even once a month. Exercise helps sometimes, and it is my fault that I haven't gone this week. Or this month.
Another notification pops up in my head. "No one likes you." Thanks, Me. That helps. I have left my document for this Friday's show untouched on my tablet - I will not be viewing that until the morning when this storm has passed. It's always only about 12 hours, and I'm going on hour 8 and hopefully will sleep off the rest before making any serious life decisions like cutting off all of my hair or buying a new car. Or new pet. Or making another baby (NOT THAT I AM CURRENTLY ATTRACTIVE ENOUGH TO BANG.)
Another notification. "You can't even end this post. It'll sit in drafts for years like your other bombs." SHUT UP, it totally won't. I'll publish it and deeply hate myself for it.