Itch

I'm not feeling particularly bloggy.  Yet I am.  I am a creature of contradiction.  My fingers are itching to share with you, but my brain doesn't agree.  The itch has been bothering for quite a few days now, however my brain has been busy with business of another sort.  Now I want to scratch.

Tonight I ate cookies with a man.  It was the sort of night that a girl doesn't know it's a date until she's in it.  The sort of night that confuses a girl like me.  On this maybe date the cookie man asked.  Questions are his forte and I the victim of interrogation.  So when he inquired as to my choice of major, I told him it is because I writer.

A writer who doesn't write.  At least not for enjoyment as of late.  I feel like my words have been sucked out of me.  Sucked into resume writing, and technology tutorials, and professional blogging, and book summaries, and discussions on global capacities.  No writing that satisfies the itch.

But I think it is coming.  I think the scratching, the zestyness, is on its way.  I can feel my brain almost ready to share with my fingers.  I'm almost ready to share with you.