I eat too much, I drink too much, I want too much. TOO MUCH.

Have I ever mentioned that I'm a writer? Hopefully through reading this you've deduced some semblance of an idea that represents the aforementioned inquiry. I love when people ask me what I do. I can't think of a more smart ass retort than, "I'm a writer." It says so much and absolutely nothing all at once.

I took last week off of the blog in an effort to work on some other projects. This aspiration quickly backfired when I became violently ill on Tuesday morning and spent the remainder of the week in bed. Not eating, not drinking, and most certainly not writing.

Sometimes I feel like some of my best work is the stuff that never actually makes it on paper. I don't know whether it's my desire to find the beauty in everything, my constant search for the silver lining. Or that I'm consistently composing and re-working sentences in my head to find the best possible way to say something. This need to be able to intertwine words and phrases into delicate jumbles of sense. I can't explain it. I think I see the world from a different angle.

I'm still not sure what made me sick. I haven't bounced completely back, but after a long week of thinking capped off with a weekend jaunt to Florida, I've cleared my head. And what I've deduced is that lately life has become a string of ironies. So many things that could be happening and SHOULD be happening just aren't. My faith is endless, however, and I am confident that everything will click. Writing included.

But until then, I will continue to eat too much, drink too much, and most certainly want too much.