Inspiration fails me, my pen refuses to move from its place on the page, leaving a splotch the size of the thoughts I wish to write. I wish I could fill ten notebookes with my sociopolitical nonsense and whinings of every trivial romance in my young life. I want to dry up pen after pen, wake up hungover from writing late the night before, cover each and every slip of paper in alliterations and onamonapias. If only I could be a real artist, one who carries her notebook and pen to libraries, coffee shops, and movie theaters, finding inspiration in ever face and street corner. But no. I'm just sitting here, pen in midair, staring at a blank page.