Writing when you have nothing to say

I promised to write every day. And I'm trying. Like keeping my weight and anxiety down, it takes work on a daily basis, even when I don't have time. My therapist says to check in with my breathing every hour and make sure I'm breathing diaphragmatically. And I need to stop eating leftover Peeps and Easter bread. Who the fuck has time? But do you want to get better or not? Tonight, I need to go back to WW and face the music, err, scale.

This busy, crazy head of mine always has three or four blog posts going. But when I sit down to write, they whoosh out of my head like a bird being surprised on the lawn. (Spring metaphor.)

So, Terri Schiavo died. So sad. No matter if you're right to life or right to...well, die. I felt for her, wasting away. I'm not saying it wasn't the right thing to do to let her die. But you have to pity someone who's starving to death. Now comes the autopsy and the cremation and the burial and the Republicans and Democrats yelling at each other -- oy vey, make it go away. Anna Quindlen, one of my favorite writers (talk about talent), wrote about the situation in Newsweek. I think she's right on. Who the hell am I to judge?