You know that feeling when you’re at work and you don’t have anything to do and you sit at your desk and kind of space out and then because you were spacing out you’ve let far too much time pass and you realize, “Whoa, I’ve been spacing out,” and then you think, “Okay, do my co-workers know that I’ve been spacing out? If so, are they cool with that because they know that I have nothing to do? Or have I been ignoring something that’s due, like, now?” It then becomes a gamble to alert a boss to the fact that you don’t have much to do because you could be met with, “Are you serious? Well, what have you been doing all day?”

I’ve felt like that all day today.

And, frankly, I spent multiple years doing that at another job. (I was in my twenties, I had years to burn. Besides, at least I had comedy at night.)

I am currently in the no man’s land time between work and improv. My co-workers are blasting disco music for a team-specific Christmas party (yes, Christmas – do I have to remind everyone that it’s still November?). “Le Freak” by Chic is currently playing. Before that it was “Superfreak” by Rick James. These songs are being played in an office. Steve Rubell must be rolling over in his grave.

You are probably tired of hearing it and I’m tired of writing it but I’ve got nothing today. My marathon runner friends describe a moment in the marathon where they have nothing left but they have to push through anyway. That’s where I am with my daily writing. I’m sick of myself. Every idea that I have seems so incredibly dumb. (I just watered the succulents that I keep at work. I’m enjoying Fear by Bob Woodward. I liked Ralph Breaks the Internet. I’m so mundane I want to slap myself. I don’t know how Karl Ove Knausgaard does it.)

I’m going to test the theory that the only way to get through writer’s block is by writing. And I will drag you people down with me. Thanks for reading!