Well. It's happened. I've turned into that crazy-lady blogger who can only post about people cutting her off in traffic, the hilarious things her offspring say, and her loving husband who treats her like a queen. Two out of three, anyway.
The realization hit me as I crossed my low-water bridge between three men who blocked both sides, fishing poles extended over the pavement, lines dropping into the water at the edge, forcing me to drive the gauntlet they deigned to leave between their road-hogging rumps. It was a dangerous narrowing of my traffic artery, making me susceptible to a corollary infarction.
And in my mind, I turned the situation into a poorly-seasoned dish to be served up for blog consumption.
Like a hack of a stand-up comic, I am relegated to my own special brand of airplane food, taxi driver, and hotel room jokes. With the summer upon me, I have no rants about working conditions or witty cafeteria-table repartee. I am intellectually stagnating in a goopy, bacteria-riddled mental pool of Backroads backwater.
I need a catalyst. A tooth-gnashing gator to explode from my cognitive quagmire. A block of blue ice to plummet from the friendly skies and punch a hole in my becalmed vessel. A skittery scorpion to scamper up the pants-leg of my semi-conscious psyche. A scintillating story to elicit gasps, screams, and hoots from my audience.
Yet here I sit. Growing fat(ter) and sassy on my summer vacation. Pining for the days when Hick was on the receiving end of a firearm twice in one week. Lamenting that nobody ever pays ME in gum.