Primal Scream Time

I am posting this afternoon in hopes (fingers crossed!) that I can alleviate some of my writer's block.

Here's what's buggin' me:

1) There's a loud talker in my office. You know, the blabbermouth who conducts a 40-minute conversation about Star Wars in her cube at the top of her lungs while the rest of us try very hard to write and ignore her. And we (OK, I) fail miserably. While she continues on telling the same oh-so-funny jokes that she's told for the last two weeks.
By the way, she has crazy deadlines like all of us. So, why is she the only one in the department flapping her gums while the rest of us have our heads buried in Microsoft Word and our Rock and Roll antiseptic of choice spinning on portable music players?

2) I have U2's Discotheque in my head. And it won't go away. While I love U2 with all of my heart, and can't wait for their concert in September, I cannot say Discotheque is my very favorite. That, and I only know one word in the song -- Discotheque. So I keep singing.. uh, uh, uh... Dis..co..theque.. uh, uh, uh... Dis..co..theque.. uh, uh, uh... Dis..co..theque.. over and over until my neurotic self-medicating is rudely interrupted by the loud talker. And the whole cycle repeats.

3) It's 90 degrees outside. In 2 hours, I'll be sitting in a pool. Every time I think about that, it's even harder to concentrate on writing about accessing the Daily Performance Report and how to read it... (WAKE UP! I KNOW, I KNOW.... IT'S REALLY BORING!)

4) I haven't been to the cabin yet this year. I am going next weekend, but I somehow feel like I have neglected my duty as both a member of the Green family, my loyalty to our little strip of heaven near Spooner, and my responsibility as a mother to make every single weekend chock-full of scrapbook-worthy goodness.

5) Every time Dis..co..theque goes through my head, I start thinking about the song Mr. Zdrazil sang in 10th grade Lit class:
Let's all go to the bibliotheque
Let's all go to the bibliotheque
Let's all go to the bibliotheque
Let's all go to the bibliotheque
(Trust me, it's a lot more powerful when you hear your tall, tortoise-shell glasses English Teacher/One-Act-Play-Director/Closest thing to a hero you'll have in a town of 1200 sing it a capella in the middle of 5th hour.)
Then I get all distracted when my mind wanders to my High School career, and this is a black hole that only plunges me further into the writer's block I'm trying with all my might to avoid facing.