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Do you have to be horny to write good porn?

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It feels weird to be writing about something I've know to be true all this time. Or something close to true at least. At the end of the day, when it comes to writing or drawing or doing, it isn't so much the logic or the intellect or the wit behind one's words—even those support the battle in trying to do well—but rather, everything is brought together in feeling.

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There seems to be an odd trend with the writers I've talked to—especially the one in the mirror. Many of them wish to write, many of them have written before with ease, but at this moment, at this very second, they struggle to have fingers begin striking the keys.

I blink. I crack my neck. I ask them 'why' for such a thing.

“We don't know.”

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The only thing people respect is work, or at least, the results thereof. The existence of production rather than the prospect of what can be. For those vaguely admired, in more cases than fewer, it is for what they appear to be rather than what they are.

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For the last little while—for however many days, I do not know—I've been in the dumps. Slump a plump nub on my numb butt. In spite of this, I have taken to opening up a document and typing whatever would come through my fingertips. To be honest with you, even I have no clue what the hell any of it means.

But hey.

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Let's be honest. Most of these blogs are me rambling about somewhat-interesting topics for over a thousand words.

How about a switch?

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