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.