Why am I a writer?

I could be a plumber or an architect or a serial killer or a psychiatrist or a banker or a goat farmer or a meth dealer or a lawyer or a cheerleader or a stripper or a tax collector. But I’m an emotionally disturbed writer with a butt-ton of issues.

I’ve been sitting in the same spot all day cussing out every word in the English language, because there isn’t one that says what I want to say.   I don’t know what I want to say, which is 100 times more irritating than not knowing how to say something.   I have a serious case of poopy brain. It’s been stalking me since Thanksgiving, and now it’s here stinking up my writing and my mood — aarg!      

This week has been a blur of children and company and new jobs and family and holiday preparations and alarm clocks and voices in my head telling me to jump — “Jump now. It’s quiet down here … Jump. Jump.”

So I’m calling it a night, despite the hours I put in writing — which pisses me off, because I HATE wasting time.

But I think it’s for the best that I sleep and pray for the voices go away by morning.

Feel free to toss me a life line — any topic will do. Help me, please.