Dear Universe, and Where Writer's Block Begins

In his usually bossy manner, he "suggested" that I write a post about writing opportunity as it correlates to my current inability to put words to page.
Ooh, that almost sounded smart! And I even spelled smart right on the first try. Ha!

I would just like to take this moment to say that my kids got me sick again, and I am filing an official complaint with the universe regarding sick time:

Dear Universe,
I truly do feel, with all of my dark cold little heart, that there should be an official limit to how long a person can be sick with plague-like forms of the common cold in any given period of time. I also feel quite strongly that there should be at least 1 month between occurrences, because 1 week simply is not a long enough period of time during which to get and maintain a life.
I would also like to address the small issue of sick leave. Specifically, umm, the fact that there isn't any. At all. If anything, there appears to be more laundry, bigger bills, dirtier floors, hungrier children, and less reliable vehicles. I realize that you are quite busy, and the little detail regarding sick leave may have slipped past you, but I find the current policy to be completely inadequate. Perhaps your definition needs could use an adjustment?
Thank you for your time, Universe.
Sincerely,
Mrs. Leavemealoneoriwillbreatheonyou
P.S I don't suppose that you have any time to address the soaring cost of meat, by any chance? Maybe I'm pushing my luck...

Where was I? Oh, opportunities and constipated writing inability writer's block.

So anyways, back in January, there was this chance
a conversation with someone
an idea
that perhaps
just maybe
if I could string together a coherent story with all of those things a real story needs,
it would be something that left my desktop
that was submitted
and edited
and read
and
gasp
maybe even
published.
Not paper, but I have gotten over my e-book snobbery--words are just plain cool. Especially if they're good.

Within a day of that of conversation, I had nothing to say. Anywhere that had anything to do with printed words.
I could barely string together a sentence about what I ate for breakfast (because what I ate for breakfast is really so exciting). Ideas that had been floating around in my mind for a year just drifted off like puffs of smoke, and the ability to use the printed word as a vehicle to describe even my personal thoughts and feelings (as I have been doing for some time now) became suddenly elusive.

The Big Meanie Alpha felt unreasonably strongly suggested that the best way to get over writer's block was to write about where it began. So there. Said with all the grace of a snotty hyena prancing fawn.
I'm tempted to add that he wouldn't know if I had written it or not, since he doesn't read my drivel anymore,  (I suppose that one can hardly blame the man, I dunno what the rest of you are doing here) but saying that might be a touch too unreasonably pouty cheeky. So I won't.