Copywriter Down

Trying to write copy on the back of a football-filled, sleep-deprived night is as possible as convincing Nike (me cat, not the goddess of victory nor the brand that tells everyone to just do it) that my big toe isn’t a teething toy. Attempts to coerce my brain into getting its lazy ass to work via the “repeated pounding of forehead with base of palm technique” has only resulted in a 6.7-on-the-Richter-scale headache and the consequent death and destruction of God-knows-how-many brain cells.

Writing copy that expounds the beauty and pleasure to be derived from various styles of interior furnishing irritates me deeply. I have been staring cross-eyed at the opening line of this freaking paragraph since 11am in the vain hope that somehow the letters will multiply and arrange themselves into something coherent. But, as usual, neither the vowels nor the consonants are showing any interest in procreating or even leaving their seats. Just my luck.

More fishing stuff: The joys of fishing are desperately under-appreciated. No one can truly understand the rush of blood that trying to drag great flapping aquatic things out of the water brings until one actually goes out and tries to drag great flapping aquatic things out of the water. And, just for good measure, where’s my tackle box!?