It is the eve of the day in which I have nothing written and ready for posting to my blog. For the past week I’ve been dealing with a case of writer’s block.

Generally, writer’s block doesn’t stick around this long – maybe two or three days at worst – then the flood gate opens and I’ll have five to 10 pieces written, edited and ready for publication. Not this time though – and this is the second time it has happened in the last two-months.

Naturally, I analyzed what could be causing this and I came up with a rather disturbing conclusion: my blockage is due to a deep-seated fear that I will run out of material to write about. I could have knocked myself over with a feather, turned writing quill.

For years, I’ve claimed that my ability to write – whether you think it’s good, bad or indifferent – has been on loan from God. This means the skill is not actually mine and subject to recall at the time of my death or even prior should He so chose.

But I’m not talking about the skill of word smithing – I’m speaking of material. That’s always been left up to me to decide on – again – good, bad or indifferently.

So here I am – stuck – like my truck in a dune of loose, fine sand and all I have are my hands to dig at the tire with. If it doesn’t become unstuck soon there are only two choices – wait for another passerby or walk back the way I came to the main road and get help.

Both are fine options. After all, I view them through my personality of being both stubborn and being a man of action.

At the moment, I’m digging like hell, hoping, when it’s actually time to hoof it.

I’m old enough to recall when the television was considered furniture.

My rules for the road are simple: If you’re driving faster than me, you’re a maniac; slower than me; you’re an idiot.

On many an evening, before bedtime, I will scratch my wife’s back until she hands me the Lavender Oil to rub out the itchy dryness she endures daily.

“It also helps me sleep,” she explains.

Knowing I have difficulty falling and staying asleep, she has recommended several times that I should try it. I finally did.

After rubbing it into my shoulders and down both arms, I washed my hands and turned in for the night. As I lay in bed, I felt my left arm and thought, “Kinda feels smooth.”

Minutes later I found myself slipping off into la-la land. Then my left eye began to itch and I quickly rubbed it with my right hand.

Within minutes, I realized my mistake as my eye began to sting. Soon it was burning and I had to get a wet, cold wash clothe to place over it.

There seemed to be no relief at first as I sat on the side of my bed nursing a now swollen eye and cussing at myself for my stupidity. It took a couple of hours before I began to feel any relief.

Then my right eye itched…

Federal authorities say you’re not allowed to use marijuana if you’re using a laxative. You must either shit or get off the pot.

The door was open to the old church, turned community theater as I stepped inside. According to his cardboard sign, on stage was an unshaven man in ragged clothes, presenting a three-part act.

Finishing Act I, he bowed, stepped behind the curtain and re-entered the stage from the other side. He finished the second act with a song-and-dance routine.

As the third act began, a two deputies entered the theater, heading towards the stage to arrest the thespian. I protested, “Please, let him finish!”

They were accommodating, allowing him to complete the last act from his jail cell —  across mine.

Confidence is silent while insecurity is loud.

“Hey, Dad – how did my sister Teresa, get her name?”

“Because your mom loves Easter.”

“I don’t get it.”

“It’s an anagram.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s where you create a word, or a name or sentence using the letters of another word or name.”

“How does it work?”

“For instance ‘silent’ can be rearranged into the word, ‘listen,’ or Clint Eastwood’s name can be rearranged into: ‘Old West Action,’ — but remember, you have to use all the letters.”

“Oh, kind of like a secret code or something.”

“Yeah, you could say that, son.”

“That’s so cool. Thanks, Dad.”

“You’re welcome, Alan.”

So, according to the Mandela Effect, Easter commemorates when Jesus hid eggs for His disciples to find and then turned all the rabbits into chocolate, right?