I started a blog entry for Sex and the Ivy two weeks ago and I’m still working on it. It’s a blog entry about writer’s block. Some grand irony there, eh?

In the interim, the title changed from “I don’t want to write about you” to “I don’t write anymore,” as it became more and more apparent that it wasn’t just the Guy I couldn’t write about. I kind of can’t write about anything remotely important anymore.

That’s the thing: it’s easy to write about party habits and press mentions and ridiculous sex and what or who I did last Friday. It’s not so easy to write about how terribly insecure I sometimes get when it comes to the serious stuff, like my inability to come clean with my mother about my blog.

When I took a break from daily postings on Sex and the Ivy, I didn’t think that I’d also take a break from examining my life critically. But I kind of have. Putting things down in writing affirms that I feel a certain way at a certain point in time. It makes me deal with my insecurities. Not writing means that I can ignore problems and fears for much longer stretches, but that’s really just postponing resolution, and in doing so, postponing life. That’s why I’m forcing myself to write right now. I want to stop waiting and start living.

So, the list of Things I Cannot Write About In A Meaningful Way includes: 1) My mother, 2) the Guy, and 3) the fact that I cannot write about things in a meaningful way.

Fuck. This is not going to be an easy piece to finish.