With a little help from my editor, I've momentarily sidestepped my writer's block. I'm writing pure drivel, mind you, but I'm filling up pages. I do know, however, that writing drivel now is the first step to writing slightly-more-polished trash later, and then - halleleujah - brilliant prose!

It's just so painful to write drivel! Ouch! And I only have about a month to turn this drivel into brilliant prose. So far, I've been one of those rare writers who turns everything into her editor on time. Will my amazing run last? Tune in later and see - my next deadline is June 1!

Moving on. My brief foray into the online personals three weeks ago has been more fruitful than I thought possible.

Yes, I BB, am getting down again. The hardest part has been narrowing my choices. Because if I've learned anything from the last two years is that juggling men is, in the end, dangerous. I end up dropping them all. I end up strung out, confused, and always, in the end, alone.

Which is fine. I mean, boyfriends take up a lot of writing time. But it would be nice to have something work out.

For once.

But if it doesn't fine. There are lots of books to be read and lots of sleep to be had. And I write so much better when I'm h*rny anyway.

You will be happy to know that I have reached a milestone in the writing of my book: writer's block.

Yes, I, who have been writing at a furious, inspired pace since November, earning nothing but accolades from my (obviously very brilliant and tasteful) editor, has come to a dead, f*cking stop.

OK, that's not strictly true. I have been typing. My fingers have been moving. I have dutifully sat myself down every day with my increasingly greasy Dell Inspiron -- which any day now will give way from the coffee spilled on it and the food particles it has ingested, thus ridding the world of my pathetic little oeuvre -- writing myself into circles.

But now that I am at the crux of my story, I find that the plot is not working. I don't know why. It sounded so good when I said it out loud after three glasses of wine, but things have gone awry. I think I'm forcing too many crises on my poor little character. Trying to make her f*ck up one too many times. I'm writing scenes I don't believe in. And yet, I can't see my way out. I keep banging my head against the same wall, too freaked out by my impending deadline to step back and say hmm...how can I do this another way?

Thus, today, I have written a plea for help to my editor. As of yet I have not been a high-maintenance writer. There are plenty of those, I hear. Neurotic, drunken, depressed, dependent, calling their editors at all hours of the night and day. But not me! I have been a little angel! That's because I have a blog on which to reveal my most neurotic, drunken, and manic-depressive states. But I need help NOW! Ring, ring, ring, oh editor, please!

Meanwhile, I have been sick as a dog, and mainlining male attention to boot. I have had such a surplus of it lately that , when it dries up, as it inevitably will, you're going to find me stealing televisions and ipods to pay for more. F*ck, I might even have to sell my greasy Inspiron and then there would we be?

The problem is, I seem to have stumbled into a gold mine of men. It always happens this way, doesn't it though? Doesn't rain, but pours, right, let's get that tired cliche out of the way. Not only that, these men - all of whom are attentive and accomplished and f*cking hot - seem genuinely interested in me.

I am trying not to be greedy. Trying to remember, how, when I've been in positions of "power" before, that I got crazy with it. Made bad choices. Lost my supply and ended up on the street again.

I don't know how things will end up this time. Probably the same way it always has. Just me, alone with my laptop at the coffee shop.

But someday you know, this cycle is going to have to end. Breakup Babe is drawing close to the end of her life already - can't you feel it? She's tired of creating drama for drama's sake. She's censoring herself way more than she ever has in the past, for fear of hurting the people she might be interested in, but it's a half-assed solution.

She doesn't want to be an addict, exploiting men for their attention and their dramatic potential. She wants to love someone again. But how is she going to do that if her name is "Breakup Babe?"

But first things first. I gotta get through this writer's block.

Yes I know, poor me: I'm being paid to write a novel! My life is sooo hard!

Excuse me for that whinefest yesterday. I am feeling somewhat more on the ball today after getting up at the crack of dawn (7 a.m.) and writing for two full hours before work, during which time I drank two cups of my own lethal coffee (one cup = 4 cups of "normal" coffee) got a decent (yay!) draft of one chapter written, tried out a creepy flesh-colored paint on my wall (it was called "pumpkin seed" so how was I to know?), shaved my legs (not very well I might add), and blow-dried my long-lustrous tresses (one of the world's most boring tasks).

I have to apologize for being so elusive about my dating life. At last there is one, but my newfound Googleability has made me a bit gun shy. Maybe I'll get over it.

xo
BB

OK, OK, things are under control - NOT!

Suddenly my life is Date Central, and not only that, I have a friggin' novel due in 3.5 months and guess what, everything I'm writing now is UTTER CRAP.

Yes, crap. That's because I've gotten to the part of my book I haven't written yet! Up until now, I was working off a rought draft, but now - now, my darlings - I am faced with many blank pages, and not only that, they have to be the most exciting pages of the book - the *crisis*, and - drumroll please, the *climax!*

Excuse me, but I don't know how to write a f*cking novel. I've never written one before! Why in the world would anyone pay me to do such a thing?

If all that weren't anxiety-producing enough, there are possibly still more Scary Medical Tests ahead, because apparently, when the certain Scary Medical Tests I took three weeks ago show nothing - absolutely nothing! - they put you through some more just to make double sure there is nothing - absolutely nothing! - wrong with you.

Sigh.

One day this book will be written, and one day there will be love in my life and not just adrenaline and anxiety and one day I will either be healthy or dead. But jeez, this limbo, is for the moment, bone-jarring. So get ready, get set, and hold on for the ride.

I must have tried at least five times to post something yesterday but $#%! Blogger wouldn't let me!

Anyway, I know you're all just jonesing for you Breakup Babe fix, so in short order, here's the latest:

First and foremost, yours truly is no longer anonymous. Any would be suitor can now Google me and discover that I am the author of a seemingly man-hating (yet undeniably entertaining!) blog.

So I am off to Montana to live under a rock because I clearly have no chance of finding a husband anymore - except as GalPal #3 pointed out - one who doesn't have Internet access, and they are all living in Montana under rocks as well (writing anti-government propaganda in longhand.)

It's too bad because the Breakup Babe of yore seems to have re-emerged, if only temporarily, shaking her booty in bars around town and meeting attractive, high-quality (!) men.

If anyone is aware of a good rock, please let me know. Close to a stream would be good. Close to a coffee shop would be even better, but I know that's a bit much to ask.