Riders on the Storm

Today I'm a writer on the storm.  Thank you, Doors.  I'm having one of those days where I question myself as a writer.  Well, really as a blogger.

I'm the opposite of a narcissist when it comes to writing.  (When it comes to everything else, I hung the moon.)  I just can't really think of anything people would want to read about, and I often find myself thinking "Who cares?" after writing something.  The last thing I want is for this to be a big rant or God forbid, an outline of my daily bouts with Larry David Complex, for which I think I need to be treated medically.  

I'm stuck?  I kind of feel like this is the dilemma female comedians run into, that they want to fit in with the guys without ditching their ladylike axioms for the graphic nature of sex and gas jokes.  Ugh.  Now I'm just whining.  And I'm pretty sure the girl sitting next to me in the library is sexting her boyfriend, maybe for the first time judging by the giddy/discomforting nature of her position in the chair.

So here I am complaining about my writer's block while someone ten inches from me is losing her virginity via pink RAZR.  Hello Moto...