Literarily Constipated

I’ve been feeling all writer’s-blocky this week, which always leads me down a nothing-else-funny-or-interesting-exists-in-the-universe misery spiral. It’s neither funny nor interesting.

I know the quickest way out of this cycle is to just write something, ANYTHING. So… you know, here goes.

I’m heading to pointe class for the first time in a couple of weeks in a few minutes and I know it’s going to be horrifying. I keep thinking this is something I should be adept at because I’ve been taking ballet for a few years and I’m usually pretty decent at dancey/acrobaticish/body contortion-type stuff. Plus those ballerina chicks make it look so easy! They’re these little wispy things and they just sort of float over their toes. I mean really, they must have had 2 pieces of celery and half a lemon to eat in the last 3 days, how can what they do really require much effort?

But it turns out this logic is enormously flawed. Dancing on pointe is almost nothing like normal ballet at all! The moves all have the same names, but you have to completely reteach your body how to perform them. Getting (and staying) up there on top of your shoes requires all these insane muscles that run the length of your entire body I wasn’t even aware existed. Furthermore, every time I go from flat to up on my toes, it’s a leap of faith. I’m never sure it’s not going to be the time I don’t make it all the way up, overshoot or my ankle just breaks in half and I end up on my face or my ass. Class is basically 45 minutes of terror.

After class when I sit down to remove my shoes I always suspect they’ll be filled with blood.

I’m not saying I’m going to stop going. I do enjoy a challenge, after all. I’m just saying, that shit is harder than it looks. And I wouldn’t want to meet a ballerina in a back alley. Those bitches are hungry AND strong.

My mom got me this cute necklace I really like except 75% of the time when I’m wearing it I feel like it’s that moment before you get choked out. Not that I’ve ever actually been choked out. But I imagine this is what it would feel like right before if I ever was grabbed and held hostage.

Cute, in an ‘I’m about to die’ sort of way.

So…

….um…

….the stuff that….

…and now I’m writer’s blocked on my writer’s block post. Mother fucker. I’m going to go hang myself by my murdery necklace. (I’ll try harder tomorrow.)