It's 8:40 pm and my saturday night is being spent at the desk space in my dining room. It's too late to watch Poriotics on America's Best Dance Crew and too early to watch Rainn Wilson host Saturday Night Live. I could watch my DVRed Survivor, but I don't have the will power. I'm sitting here on my wood-woven bench, staring at my mom's 2005 HP laptop with a hooked up keyboard because my little sister spilled milk on the regular one when I made brownies with my best friend one night last summer. I'm typing with one hand, resting my chin on the other. I smell barbecue sauce and Viva la Juicy perfume, a surprisingly comforting combination, but it's faster if I use two hands again. There we go. My hair's pulled behind my face with a think, black, sequined headband synergetic with my jet-black eyeliner framed football shaped hazel eyes. My faded Ohio State sweatshirt is on the verge of becoming a hand-me-down. I only wore it because it matches my black and red Air Jordan sweatpants and black adidas athletic socks. I don't know what about writer's block gets me so descriptive.

I could put this in the opinion category, but then it just seems I'm complaining, which I'm clearly not. I'm not upset, just bored. This happens to me every time I get time to write and nobody to question why I'm not spending it like the cliche teenager-on Facebook-which is the reason I have it open in another tab. Clever thinking, Lauren. Oh, well thanks.

I could put this in the realistic fiction category and pretend I actually, on this given night, have a life and am spending it with friends rofl-ing and creating inside jokes that will only tick my other friends off on Monday. But that's not the case. This is excusively a personal experience essay. And it's not about my trip to Dubai or the first time I went hang gliding or how I impacted the world environmentally(in a positive way, of course). This is just my way of making those of you non-cliche, bored out of your mind 14 year olds feel better. And who knows, maybe with a comment or two, I could too. But you know, I'm not asking for much. How does the triple digit area sound? Not too bad I think.

So for those of you who wanted a thriller on how I battled the burgaler out of my house with a Louisville slugger, I'll make sure to write that on another rainy day. Here's just the cold, hard truth on why writer's block definitely, undefyingly, and ultimately sucks.