Futuristic Remorse

I have lapsed as a Yearbook historian, y’all. I forgot (or rather, to state the crime in full measure, pretended to forget) to reflect on the Futurist performance art dinner I went to a week ago as part of the Capitol Fringe Festival.

All attendees to this eccentric event got to wear special robes, be treated like numnuts, and experience everything from vegetable-scented air to Magic Food, which was mysterious white pellets that could alternately taste horrible, adequate, or palatable. In other words, it was a beyond blogworthy experience, but I just didn’t even know where to start when I tried writing about it. At first I beat myself up about it. But instead of feeling beat up, I actually felt upbeat.

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Blankity Blank Blank

There is writer’s block and then there’s writer’s constipation.

One is unfortunate. The other is just uncomfortable.

It’s not just that you can’t think of anything to write.

It’s also that you just can’t squeeze anything out without feeling

like it hardly wants to come out in the first place.

It’s mutually unacceptable.

It’s awkward.

It’s uneager.

It’s about as ugly as the scene gets.

And it remains unwritten.