I only have ten minutes to write this post. It’s hard to write under pressure. It’s even harder to write not under pressure. Sit in your room in front of your computer on a weekend and see if you can write anything meaningful, funny, or in any way legible. You have things to do! Shut up, shove that beef jerky into your mouth and go back to sleep! There are things to do starting Monday, and they’re not going to get done if you wear yourself out on Sunday writing words.

I now have one minute to write this post. I spent nine minutes writing the dumbest, shortest paragraph I’ve ever written. I am not sure if I I’ve run out of things to write about, or if I no longer have an original thought. I’m just going to start listing things that I see here in this office, in my mom’s house, where I’m writing this tonight. Stapler. Telephone. Olivia. Printer. A book, which looks to be titled, Fifty Shades of Grey. And I am officially writing the rest of this post with my eyes closed.

Now, not only do I have nothing to write about, but I have these horrible images in my head that should never, ever be there. Quick! Think about the stapler. Good lord the stapler! Dammit! I only made the stapler up because I couldn’t find anything else in this room. However, the copy of Fifty Shades of Grey, lying right beside me, is extremely real. I can’t finish a post about online dating while thinking about the fact that my mother owns, and most probably reads, this book.

I suppose I can think of something romantic going on in the news. Women’s Olympic weightlifting. Mitt Romney. Unrest in the Middle East. Fifty Shades of Grey. I can no longer write any more.

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