Writer’s Block and How Sand is the Worst


I can’t think of anything funny to embarrass myself with on the internet. I often find that writing about my lack of inspiration/motivation usually gives me something…

I got nothing.

I was going to write about how sand is the worst – which is really is – but I couldn’t think of how to start.

The towel made no difference.

I wanted to write this long visual about how you’re on the beach in your favorite chair (navy blue, canvas, from the 1970’s never fails me – except sometimes gives me heat rash on my back but YOLO). Anyway you’re on the beach juicy girl chillin’ in your chair and you tip your head back and sink a little deeper into relaxation. You close your eyes and alert the rest of your senses. You start to notice a cool breeze awakening your skin, making your hair stand on end. The warm sunlight on your face and in your hair. The sounds of the gentle waves rolling up the beach and the seagulls hovering in the sky above you. And finally, the sand on your feet. And as you rub your feet back and forth in the sand and dig a little deeper into the coolness of the grains that have yet to be warmed by the sun, you realize…

It’s. All. Over you.

A boy covered in sand on Bamburi beach, Mombasa, Kenya

It’s forever trapped underneath your toe nails.

All that sand is still stuck to my feet

All that sand is still stuck to my feet

It’s wrapped in the one day old leg stubble that’s grown in because the breeze is freezing. Its in the crease behind your knees sticking to the sweat from the beating heat of the sun. It’s in your belly button somehow, even though you have yet to lay down in it and be completely consumed by its wrath (yet somehow you already are). It’s under your fingernails and in between your fingers where it will sit until the end of time.

It’s in your armpits and elbow creases, again sticking to the sweat from this desert heat. It’s climbed it’s way up your body and sits in the sand-bowl perfectly engraved into your stupid collarbone. It sticks to the sun tan lotion on your face and worst of all it’s in your mouth.


Somehow, it’s found it’s way into your once refreshing lemonade that you ever so gingerly placed in the cup holder of your retro recliner 48 feet above sea level so this would stop happening. But it won’t.

The ice cubes are melting and turning into sand that you are now drinking; and the next time you close your mouth you will find the most unpleasant, out-of-nowhere, shutter-inspiring crack and slide and crumble between your teeth. And once it happens, you’re doomed. No matter how many time you swish and spit, brush your teeth, shower, eat, swallow, this feeling will never escape you. You now have sand in your mouth for the rest of your vacation even if the first day at the beach with the sand was so traumatizing and you don’t go back the whole time – there will still be sand in places you now know you have, and there will still be sand in your mouth.


I can only hope that beverage companies start making screens to go over your drinks – but I’m sure the sand will find it’s way through the minuscule spaces in the screens, or just sit on top to give you the same effect. Although, it doesn’t even matter if you have a drink on the beach, you still will wind up with sand in your mouth and no solution.


*crack, slide, crumble*


Don’t Tell Mom There’s a Serial Killer in My Office


There is a woman in my office building who is silent. Dead. Silent. I’ve never heard her speak. I’ve never heard her foot steps. Her hair doesn’t move. I have no reasonable assumption to conclude other than the fact that she’s a serial killer.

This is not just because I’ve been watching reruns of Dexter. Although, he has given me some valuable information on what to look for in a sociopath… I bet she has blood slides hidden in her air conditioner too.


Serial Killer Lady arrives at the same time I do every single morning which means she’s clearly stalking me as her next victim. Probably because I stare at her with awe and terror every day while she rides the elevator up a single floor. She’s probably saving all her energy to cause blunt force trauma to someone’s head.

Each morning she wears the same dark sunglasses, trench coat, leather gloves, and structured, square Kate Spade bag that would hold its shape in a tornado. She’s probably hiding crazy eyes and any bodily signs of a struggle.



Sometimes she brings unidentifiable objects in plastic grocery bags which I assume are her murder weapons. And her hair always looks the same and it never moves. It either doesn’t grow or she trims it every night before she goes to bed and then lays down in a pillow hair mold filled with extra hold hair spray. This woman’s appearance is meticulous. I bet she has Patrick Bateman’s morning routine down to the tighty whities – and his evening routine for that matter. She’s probably returning some video tapes right at this very moment…

american-psycho 2654151-patrick_bateman

One day I’d like to follow her home. I can only expect to find eerie neatness and an alphabetized medicine cabinet. Of course this is all probably what she’s wanted all along, and will already have a kill room waiting for me when I get there…


Pray for me…