Holy fucking flying frog crap this sucks.  I can't believe that I sat here for what feels like twelve billion years and only have two pages of questionable quality written.  I've done everything else I can do...called friends, talked to my mother, watched tv (shudder), cracked my back, knitted, ripped CDs, consumed several gallons of tea, and did all the maintenance I've ever contemplated doing on the rest of my site.  I've submitted to search engines, poked at random crap, even contemplated prank calling a country restaurant in northern Ontario for diversion (but I didn't).  I think I have procrastinated in every single way a human can procrastinate.  Hell, I even masturbated and cooked unnecessarily large amounts of meat for future meals (but not at the same time).

I'm stuck.

The outlines aren't helping, the character profiles I did aren't helping, even the scary-ass nightmare I had that filled in the plot didn't help, although it did do wonders for my adrenaline.  I'm just not inspired anymore.  Maybe it's the fact that I've been PMSing and crabby as hell, but knowing the problem isn't making me feel any better.  Maybe being able to attribute my writer's block to my crabbiness would be more soothing if I wasn't so goddamned crabby.

Fuck this, I'm going to go do yoga.